Got Hollywood Sanctimony Fatigue Yet? Just Wait.

I’m a far-removed creative in the Midwest, so when even I have heard about Weinstein’s smarmy exploits, I cannot and will not buy it that others in the industry have not, also. For one thing, women talk. We have a stealthy sisterhood warning system. It goes something like this: We get up from the table at the restaurant, go the restroom in pairs and compare notes. “Don’t ever get alone with that guy,” or “I’ve heard he only likes it (insert the most disgusting, kinky fetish here).” And from there, we phone or text our separate tribes. And that’s how word spreads. If someone’s husband or boyfriend is skeevy, trust me, he’s fooling no one. We already know it.

I feel anger and compassion for every one of those women — and men — and underage children –who were abused at the hands of powerful Hollywood moguls, but then again, I feel that way about anyone who is abused in any way by someone in power. The difference is, the ones I know personally are left to pick up the pieces minus the SAG/AFTRA medical benefits, Hollywood paychecks, fame and gold-coast lifestyles.

This was, as Malcolm Gladwell so eloquently coined the phrase, the TIPPING POINT. In the next little while, you will see every long-repressed harassment situation splashed across the National Enquirer, TMZ and beyond. Those who wish to stay relevant will defend Weinstein, because to them, at least they’re still getting column inches. From afar, we’re witnessing the Hollywood snake eating itself.

So I’m told Mr. Weinstein has jetted off to Europe. Here’s how I imagine it went down: 

POV: We are looking over the broad shoulder of a Hollywood power broker, watching his fat, stubby, hairy fingers dialing an iPhone. The light reflects on his pinkie ring.

Cuts to: Split screen of two men talking — Weinstein on left, Sir Richard Branson on right.

Weinstein: Hey, Richard, any chance you can put me up until things cool down?

Branson: No man, you’re too hot right now. And I’m still cleaning up Neckers from the hurricane.

Weinstein: But I clearly recall Princess Diana complaining about you trying to get into her pants.

Branson: Don’t drag me into your shit storm — give Polanski a call!

Hangs up. Sausage fingers places the next call.

Weinstein: Hey Roman, wanna be roommates?

Polanski: Sure! Come on over! I’ll send a jet for you.

Weinstein: No need. Mine’s gassed up and ready to go.

Polanski: Ooh, I’ve got a fun idea! Let’s call Jeffrey Epstein and see if he can fly us both down for some entertainment…wink, wink…

Weinstein: Okay, but I don’t want Bill Clinton or Prince Andrew’s sloppy seconds…

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So…some friends and I were just playing the “Let’s rename Weinstein’s new company” game online. The winner? Touchbone Pictures.

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