I, a passionate movie fan, say: Hell yes. Finally. I was actually shouting and pumping my fists.

From the Times article:

Hervé Temime, Mr. Polanski’s lawyer in Paris, told France Info radio that “there is no reason, either in law or in fact, nor on the terrain of the most elementary justice, to keep Roman Polanski in prison for even one day.” Mr. Temime, citing “the extravagant circumstances” of Mr. Polanski’s arrest as he arrived late Saturday at Zurich’s airport on the way to being honored at a local film festival, asked for the director’s release and said he intended to fight extradition.

Bernard Kouchner, the French foreign minister, described Mr. Polanski’s arrest as “a bit sinister” and said he and the Polish foreign minister, Radoslaw Sikorski, were jointly writing a letter expressing concern to Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Nearly 100 entertainment industry professionals, including the movie directors Pedro Almodovar, Wong Kar Wai and Wim Wenders, urged in a petition that Mr. Polanski be released, saying: “Filmmakers in France, in Europe, in the United States and around the world are dismayed by this decision.”

“No reason”? He raped a 13-year-old girl, then fled the United States because he didn’t want to do time after getting caught and pleading guilty. (Yes, he pled guilty to the more-palatable-sounding “sex with a minor” rather than actual rape charges. But when you’re middle-aged and you have sex with a 13-year-old, especially when she resists and super-especially when you’re a powerful man and you’ve given her alcohol and sedatives, there can be no question: you have committed rape.)

“Sinister”? See above.

“Dismayed by this decision”? Perhaps Messrs. Almodovar, Wong, and Wenders, all of whose movies I have strongly admired, should direct their dismay toward their colleague’s actions rather than toward the authorities who want him to see the punishment he deserves.

Polanski is a skillful director. I cried at “The Pianist.” But I didn’t know it was his, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone. I still feel manipulated because I reacted so strongly to a film by a man whom I consider to be without morals.

Artistic accomplishment and other forms of power cannot be the basis for a pardon of having preyed on the vulnerable. Neither can the passage of time.

To claim that the gifts someone like Polaski has given the world outweigh the pain he’s caused his victim implies that victims don’t matter. If you say a distinguished filmography is worth the emotional wholeness of an adolescent, you’re saying that adolescent is expendable. If you’re against his serving a just sentence because, well, it’s the guy who made “Chinatown,” then you endorse that idea.

Also, to cite “the extravagant circumstances” of his arrest without acknowledging that he made them necessary by taking extravagant measures — fleeing the country after confessing — to avoid capture? That’s disingenuous. It’s using a technicality to avoid looking at the uncomfortable facts: a man can make impressive art and also commit reprehensible acts in private. By avoiding that, you avoid having to punish someone famous and revered. You avoid conflict, and that’s one well-tested way to get along — by avoiding conflict with the powerful.

But this time, at least, it looks like right might just triumph over fame.

Lathed from solid envy, thick with menace, low with conspiracy, wide with mayhem, the DBS Volante sends other motorists into a lane-crossing frenzy as they dive for their cellphones to take pictures.

It’s tremendous fun to run up behind an SUV with adolescent boys in the back and watch as, their noses pressed against the rear window, their little minds become permanently warped with car fever. Their mouths go slack, their eyes spin. The Aston is the end of automotive innocence for them. Xbox will never be the same.

And then, shift down a couple of gears and stomp the throttle: The 6.0-liter V-12 starts murdering air and gas, the tailpipes tear the veil off reason and common sense, and the car . . . just . . . disappears.

Mommy, I want an Aston Martin!

Yep, he writes about cars, and really well, too. I cackle aloud at least once every time I read one of his reviews, and I start hatching get-righ-quick schemes about as often. When Maybach lends him a super-luxury sedan, the Los Angeles Times’ readership is briefly escorted into the plush serenity of a chauffeured ride up Rodeo. We can taste the grit on our tongues when he goes off-road in a four-by-four.

But he doesn’t just write about whipping the latest exotic supercars around mountain roads and German highways for our vicarious thrills. Neil also writes about the economic, environmental, political, and social challenges facing the global car industry and motorists, and as far as I can tell (other than what I read in the Times, I know little about these things), he does it with sophistication, precision, fairness, frankness, and clarity. An impressive acheivement for any critic, and he should be proud of the way he informs his readers about something that matters very much to them in many practical and emotional ways.

Read the whole article quoted above here.