aside Why It Took So Many Years To Expose The Sins Of Harvey Weinstein

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The below narrative is 16 years old but it explains how it can be so difficult to expose powerful male sex predators like Harvey Weinstein, Roy Price, Bill O’Reilly, Bill Cosby, Roger Ailes, Jeffrey Einstein and others.

Here’s the rest of the story… 

On December 3, 2001, David Carr of the New York News & Politics penned the following report, “The Emperor Miramaximus.” (“Harvey Weinstein’s empire is a place of beauty (Gwyneth Paltrow, The English Patient), of bullying (“These all suck, and you’re morons for designing them”), of talent, bluster, muscle, and paranoia. He’s definitely the largest (in all senses) cultural force in the city. But do his ends justify his means?”)

“There are many busy, self-regarding people running around Madison Square Garden on the day before the Concert for New York benefit (2003), but none as frantic as the multitasking behemoth trailing a posse of cell-phone-wielding functionaries.”

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“Sound checks are taking place, featuring rock’s most durable luminaries, but he has no time to listen. Someone from VH1 tells him that Elton John has agreed to donate the piano he’s playing for the auction. Lorne Michaels stops by, followed by the Capitol Records executive who asks him to tell Paul McCartney to play MTV’s Total Request Live, even though the former Beatle has no idea what the show is. The manager for the Who jokingly suggests he still owes the band money from his days as a concert impresario. Mick Jagger floats in, wearing a very rock ensemble of mostly lavender. Did he talk to Keith? A phone rings and a question comes up about the trailer for an upcoming movie. And then another phone rings and it’s learned that although Nobu will provide sushi backstage, they plan on delivering it as opposed to making it on-site. Everything stops.”

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“For the next 35 seconds, Harvey Weinstein is completely focused. “It’s the Nobu presentation that makes it sooooo important,” he all but coos into the phone, waving off the person who walks up to tell him that U2 is canceling for sure. “Think of it. Backstage. Movie stars. Your staff making food for some of the most important, glamorous people in the world. I know you’re short of people, but it really is the presentation that is so winning. Okay. Good.” He hangs up the phone and rejoins Jagger.”


“September 11 changed everything. well, almost everything. Before ground zero became ground zero, Harvey Weinstein was ground zero. And since the center has shifted, he has moved to reclaim a piece of it. While other people struggled to regain equilibrium, Weinstein got busy calling his shortlist of fabulousness to throw a fund-raiser. He got Sir Paul McCartney to say yes, along with a Blockbuster’s worth of Hollywood stars. Now, 24 hours before the lights go up, he is brokering the end of the show, standing in a dressing room as McCartney strums a guitar while Jagger and Pete Townshend listen.”

“On the following night, Miramax co-chair Harvey Weinstein, along with John Sykes of VH1 and James Dolan of Cablevision, which owns the Garden, puts on a five-hour glamfest that includes a smashing performance by the Who, some speeches by smashed firefighters, and the junior senator from New York getting smashed flat by lusty boos from same. Some $30 million is raised for the Robin Hood Relief Fund, and all of it will go to victims of the attack since the Robin Hood foundation board members underwrote all the costs of the event. “I’m no fan of Harvey,” says someone who works in the music business. “But there is no one else—no one—who could have pulled this off.”

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At the after-party at the Hudson Hotel, Weinstein sits at a long table. Sheryl Crow greets him with a squeeze; Harrison Ford stops by. Sitting next to his wife, Eve, Weinstein has three Diet Cokes on standby in front of him and a smile of accomplishment.”

“There’s one spot left in Miramax’s cramped waiting room on the fourth floor above the Tribeca Grill: a narrow space on a love seat next to Hilary Swank. She’s sitting here because she wants to make a movie. I’m here to find out why people like her wait in line to work with Weinstein. She seems nice. I’d like to tell her that her performance in Boys Don’t Cry was transcendent, but I offer her a stick of gum instead. She thanks me as I’m beckoned back to see Weinstein.”

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“Like a lot of rooms Harvey Weinstein inhabits, his office at Miramax seems on the small, uncomfortable side. Not that Weinstein isn’t friendly. On a day a few weeks before the planes hit the towers just south of his office, he’s in a fabulous mood, taking a meeting about Shanghai, a World War II noir that’s in development. Hossein Amini, Weinstein’s favorite writer—”I know it will get me in trouble, but go ahead and say I said it,” he says majestically—is there, along with Colin Vaines, a Miramax development executive.”

“Weinstein mentions that the protagonist—a broken-down loser who eventually stumbles across the truth—needs to have a job. “He should be a reporter,” Weinstein says, giving me a collusive smile.”

“After stiffing me for months, Harvey Weinstein has been nothing but accommodating, showing me the love as only the padrone of the New York glitzocracy can. He’s introduced me to Gwyneth Paltrow—”You’re the first person I ever asked her to do this for”—arranged a sit-down with Martin Scorsese, and had his friend Nicole Kidman call. I’m in—kind of, temporarily, a member of the downtown tribe of Miramax.”


“The development meeting is a convivial scene. Despite an illness that took him out of the public eye for three months last year, he looks robust, sitting behind a desk in a blue sport shirt divided by a parallelogram of suspenders. The neck is inferred, not seen.”

“His coal-hued eyes make me uneasy. They reflect—if the dozens of stories I have heard are true—mayhem in abeyance. But his eyes can also spot Zeitgeist long before it comes over the hill. Which is why a city full of incandescent fabulousness pivots around a man who looks like nothing so much as a bean-bag chair with legs.


Like most titans, Harvey has a legendary sense of self, an annunciatory way of speaking and moving that suggests he knows he’s a big deal. He wants to make it clear that his illness last year and his other hobbies may have pulled him out of his sweet spot, but he has returned to making a big deal out of small movies. We play cheery peekaboo around his hiatus—”I’m not going to tell you about the insanity thing,” he har-hars—”

“I’m back full-time with no diversions. I’m doing all the edgy stuff that I want to do, and I am fucking going to hit some out.”


It’s meant as a promise, a charming one at that, but like a lot of things that come flying out of his mouth, it sounds like a threat.

“You know what? It’s good that I’m the fucking sheriff of this fucking lawless piece-of-shit town.” Weinstein said that to Andrew Goldman, then a reporter for the New York Observer, when he took him out of a party in a headlock last November after there was a tussle for Goldman’s tape recorder and someone got knocked in the head. Weinstein deputized himself and insisted that Goldman apologize. His hubris would be hilarious if he weren’t able to back it up. Several paparazzi got pictures of the tussle, but Goldman bet me at the time that they would never see print.”

“I mailed him his dollar a week later. I’d talk to Goldman about it, except he now works for Talk magazine, which is half-owned by Miramax.”

“In the wiring diagram of New York, no one’s juice approaches Weinstein’s. He’s got P. T. Barnum’s DNA and Walt Disney’s billions. Recall that on the night of the presidential election last November, Weinstein co-hosted a party for the Clintons at Elaine’s that juxtaposed Stanley Crouch with Sigourney Weaver, Bill Bratton with Uma Thurman, and Michael Bloomberg with J.Lo. What other captain of industry or culture could create those dyads?”

A. J. Benza, who held Weinstein harmless when he was a gossip at the Daily News, has a book on Talk-Miramax that will become a movie. Liz Smith calls him the Irving Thalberg of our age, and Weinstein reciprocates by giving her a steady taste of star quotage. Rush and Molloy can’t blurb one of his actors without mentioning how “critically acclaimed” his last project was.

He owns you guys, all of you,” bitches one West Coast film executive. “All media is controlled out of New York, and he is the king. He has the kind of Teflon none of us can understand.”

“Having had my own torturous negotiations with Weinstein, I’ve gained an understanding of his ability to maintain custody of his image.”

“”There is one story that needs to be told about this guy, and you are not going to tell it,” hisses a New York film executive. “You’re going to write another story about this amazing indie genius, and if you think I am going to participate in the lionization of that fat fuck for even a second, you are out of your mind.”

“Weinstein buries me in star power and testimonials, making sure that I know he’s possessed of a broad streak of altruism. As I’m walking through the Village one day, my cell phone rings. It’s Paul Newman, calling to tell me that when he mentioned to Weinstein that the kids at his Hole in the Wall Gang camp needed a gymnasium, Weinstein agreed to pay for it without asking how much it would cost.”

“His loyalty prompts reciprocation. When Talk magazine launched, pal Gwyneth Paltrow ended up posing in S&M garb that didn’t fit either her career arc or any of her personal needs. Paltrow says that “there were certain favors that he asked me to do that I felt were not exploitive but not necessarily as great for me as they were for him. I brought this to his attention, and he said, ‘I will never do that again.’ And he’s been true to his word.”

Image result for PHOTOS OF Gwyneth Paltrow“I think that for every bad story you hear about Harvey, there are three great ones,” says Paltrow. “People are complicated, and nobody’s all good or all bad. And I think Harvey is a prime example of somebody who has a temper and is also incredibly loving . . . He’s a human being, and all of his acts can be just sort of magnified. He’s larger-than-life in every way, so his good qualities are maybe more pronounced—as are some of his bad qualities.”

‘Any suggestion that we’ve lost our edge will be erased by the first five minutes of Gangs of New York,” says Harvey Weinstein. “Make that the first fifteen minutes,” says Scorsese, “although I’m not done editing it yet.”

“Gangs is Weinstein’s spendy—it was budgeted at $90 million and has $11 million in overages—signal to the rest of the industry that he has the wherewithal to muscle his way back to the vanguard of American film. And Miramax sources point out that $70 million worth of international-distribution rights have already been sold.”


“While Weinstein and Scorsese may be hugging and mugging for the cameras, a source who worked on the set recalls a meeting between the two where a phone went flying through a window and out onto the piazza. Weinstein was not the guilty party. Asked about the meeting, Scorsese smiles wanly and begins talking about his relationships with phones.”

“I really, really don’t like phones. I don’t like phones ringing. I get very irritable about cell phones and mobile phones,” he says. “You could have had airborne phone over Taxi Driver, over New York, New York. Certainly Raging Bull.”

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“The movie is bloody and long, and, according to someone involved with the making of the film, Weinstein is pressuring Scorsese to come in with a shorter film. As a measure of his seriousness, Weinstein has ordered the sound and film crews to cease working on the movie. Gangs is far and away the biggest bet Miramax has ever made. “Amélie won’t pay the interest on the money we’re spending right now,” said someone connected to the movie.”

“On the day this story went to press, Weinstein and Scorsese went tactical and called together to say that the reports were untrue. “I worship Marty, it’s like going to film school . . . the final cut of the film belongs to him,” Weinstein says.”

Here is link to entire report by David Carr : The Emperor Miramaximus – NYMag