Harvey Weinstein: What’s shocking is that it’s not shocking
The only thing that shocks me about the Harvey Weinstein scandal is that anyone being truly honest is shocked.
The sense of entitlement of older, rich men with power — even those so totally disgusting that on an even playing field would not get a second glance from young women — is so promoted, so enabled, so accepted that I find this latest burst of wide-eyed outrage disingenuous.
But mostly it makes me weary.
Twenty-odd years ago I lived in Manhattan, moving from the Midwest with a little money I got in an inheritance and trying to launch what I hoped would be a transition from journalism into television and film writing. Through a friend of a friend’s sister, I snagged a job at what can only be described as a spectacularly awful TV show. It was a short-lived attempt to revive a 1970s hit. I was a production assistant working not on the set but in the front office as a glorified receptionist.
Mostly, I was ignored by the terribly important people there doing terribly important things. Hierarchy rules Hollywood, measured by who gets to scream at whom without consequence and who gets the best personal driver. The office was populated with producers, directors, writers and casting agents and a descending order of assistants who stroked the egos of those above them and clung to and ferociously wielded their hardfought-for bullying power to anyone below.
I, a former reporter, came from a different world. I had a finely tuned B.S. meter and found it all fairly ridiculous. But I figured I would do my time in the hope that it would lead to something better. I sat at my desk, rolled my eyes and tried to keep my attitude in check. For the life of me, I could not fathom what they did all day, but it was made plain to me that my role was not to question why — mine was to fetch coffee and know my place at the very bottom of the totem pole.
There was, however, one producer who sometimes would drop by my desk to chat. He wasn’t a household name by a long shot, but I heard through the grapevine he had done a few good projects and had some small measure of clout.
One day, he announced he was throwing a party that night at his penthouse. I should come, he said. He heard I wanted to break into writing. I could meet some people. Sure, I said. I probably said thank you.
I arrived at this incredible apartment, bought and paid for by the studio, and there he stood in all his glory, half-drunk in a black turtleneck and black leather pants. Yes, black leather pants. He ushered me inside, where in the space of a few seconds I noticed three things: a couple of bottles of Dom Pérignon, a tray of neatly rolled joints and no one else in sight. I was the only guest.
My immediate reaction was to laugh. This bumbling fool really thinks this stuff works? But I was 30, not 20. I knew myself. I was already a writer, and certainly was not going to sleep with some C-lister for my shot.
But what if it had been different? What if I were just starting out? Unlike this guy, the Harvey Weinsteins and Roger Aileses of the world hold true star-making power. The women now coming forward, those who found themselves in similar apartments and hotel rooms late at night, were faced with a terrible split-second decision that could shape the rest of their lives. I realize now how lucky I was that it didn’t turn out worse.
After a few lame attempts at seduction, the producer picked up on my ain’t-gonna-happen vibe and showed me the door. The repercussions were swift. My already tenuous job became even more tenuous, as I found myself berated at every turn. It was as though a switch had been flipped in the office.
I was fair game to be fired at any time for anything by anyone. Mercifully, the show was canceled, and everyone went their separate ways. I ultimately scurried back to journalism.
Even as I mostly dismissed the incident at the time as more comical than threatening, I also knew in my core that there would be no reporting it to anyone. Doing so never even crossed my mind. He was a producer, I was expendable.
And that is why I think the Harvey Weinstein story will not, as some now are breathlessly predicting, change the culture. I fear the only thing that will change are the names.