Hollywood Screenwriter Alleges ‘Everybody F**king Knew’ About Weinstein.

As the Harvey Weinstein scandal rumbles on in Hollywood and more details emerge about those he allegedly abused and assaulted, (there’s now an allegation of rape), it seems the rank and file of tinseltown have retreated and remain abnormally quiet.

As I follow this sordid story I’m reminded of the similarities to the Jimmy Savile scandal we had here in the UK. Where a wealthy, white, entertainment personality, with ties to the establishment exploited his position of power to sexually abuse the many.

Fair enough, Savile’s MO was underage girls and if some evidence is to be believed also the dead, but Weinstein shares so much in common with the former radio DJ in that a wall of silence was built up around the two by those closest to them and if anyone attempted to breach those walls their livelihoods, careers, reputations and credibility would be completely destroyed.

One individual, who spent nearly a decade in the company of Harvey Weinstein has spoken out about what he knew. Screenwriter Scott Rosenberg, (Beautiful Girls, Con Air, High Fidelity), recently published a brutally honest response to the wall of silence currently surrounding Hollywood on Facebook. On a lengthy and at times distressing post he highlights just how impossible it was for one to raise the alarm, due the absolute power and influence Weinstein had to weild and that ‘everbody fucking knew.’

So, uh, yeah.
We need to talk about Harvey.

I was there, for a big part of it.
From, what, 1994 to the early 2000s?
Something like that.
Certainly The Golden Age.
The “PULP FICTION”, “SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE”, “CLERKS”, “SWINGERS”, “SCREAM”, “GOOD WILL HUNTING”, “ENGLISH PATIENT”, “LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL” years…

Harvey and Bob made my first two movies.
Then they signed me to an overall deal.
Then they bought that horror script of mine about the Ten Plagues.
For a lot of money.
Also bought that werewolf-biker script.
That no one else liked but was my personal favorite.
They were going to publish my novel.
They anointed me.
Made it so other studios thought I was the real deal.
They gave me my career.

I was barely 30.
I was sure I had struck gold.
They loved me, these two brothers, who had reinvented cinema.
And who were fun and tough and didn’t give an East Coast fuck about all the slick pricks out in L.A.

And those glory days in Tribeca?
The old cramped offices?
That wonderful gang of executives and assistants?
All the filmmakers who were doing repeat business?
The brothers wanted to create a “family of film”.
And they did just that…
We looked forward to having meetings there.
Meetings that would turn into plans that would turn into raucous nights out on the town.
Simply put: OG Miramax was a blast.

So, yeah, I was there.
And let me tell you one thing.
Let’s be perfectly clear about one thing:

Everybody-fucking-knew.

Not that he was raping.
No, that we never heard.
But we were aware of a certain pattern of overly-aggressive behavior that was rather dreadful.
We knew about the man’s hunger; his fervor; his appetite.
There was nothing secret about this voracious rapacity; like a gluttonous ogre out of the Brothers Grimm.
All couched in vague promises of potential movie roles.
(and, it should be noted: there were many who actually succumbed to his bulky charms. Willingly. Which surely must have only impelled him to cast his fetid net even wider).

But like I said: everybody-fucking-knew.

And to me, if Harvey’s behavior is the most reprehensible thing one can imagine, a not-so-distant second is the current flood of sanctimonious denial and condemnation that now crashes upon these shores of rectitude in gloppy tides of bullshit righteousness.

Because everybody-fucking-knew.

And do you know how I am sure this is true?
Because I was there.
And I saw you.
And I talked about it with you.
You, the big producers; you, the big directors; you, the big agents; you, the big financiers.
And you, the big rival studio chiefs; you, the big actors; you, the big actresses; you, the big models.
You, the big journalists; you, the big screenwriters; you, the big rock stars; you, the big restaurateurs; you, the big politicians.

I saw you.
All of you.
God help me, I was there with you.

Again, maybe we didn’t know the degree.
The magnitude of the awfulness.
Not the rapes.
Not the shoving against the wall.
Not the potted-plant fucking.
But we knew something.
We knew something was bubbling under.
Something odious.
Something rotten.

But…
And this is as pathetic as it is true:
What would you have had us do?
Who were we to tell?
The authorities?
What authorities?
The press?
Harvey owned the press.
The Internet?
There was no Internet or reasonable facsimile thereof.
Should we have called the police?
And said what?
Should we have reached out to some fantasy Attorney General Of Movieland?
That didn’t exist.

Not to mention, most of the victims chose not to speak out.
Aside from sharing the grimy details with a close girlfriend or confidante.
And if they discussed it with their representatives?
Agents and managers, who themselves feared The Wrath Of The Big Man?
The agents and managers would tell them to keep it to themselves.
Because who knew the repercussions?
That old saw “You’ll Never Work In This Town Again” came crawling back to putrid life like a re-animated cadaver in a late-night zombie flick.
But, yes, everyone knew someone who had been on the receiving end of lewd advances by him.
Or knew someone who knew someone.

A few actress friends of mine told me stories: of a ghastly hotel meeting; of a repugnant bathrobe-shucking; of a loathsome massage request.
And although they were rattled, they sort of laughed at his arrogance; how he had the temerity to think that simply the sight of his naked, doughy, carbuncled flesh was going to get them in the mood.
So I just believed it to be a grotesque display of power; a dude misreading the room and making a lame-if-vile pass.

It was much easier to believe that.
It was much easier for ALL of us to believe that.

Because…

And here’s where the slither meets the slime:
Harvey was showing us the best of times.
He was making our movies.
Throwing the biggest parties.
Taking us to The Golden Globes!
Introducing us to the most amazing people (Meetings with Vice President Gore! Clubbing with Quentin and Uma! Drinks with Salman Rushdie and Ralph Fiennes! Dinners with Mick Jagger and Warren-freaking-Beatty!).

The most epic Oscar weekends.
That seemed to last for weeks!
Sundance! Cannes! Toronto!
Telluride! Berlin! Venice!
Private jets! Stretch limousines! Springsteen shows!
Hell, Harvey once took me to St. Barth’s for Christmas.
For 12 days!
I was a broke-ass kid from Boston who had never even HEARD of St. Barth’s before he booked my travel.
He once got me tickets to the seven hottest Broadway shows in one week. So I could take a new girlfriend on a dazzling tour of theater.
He got me seats on the 40-yard-line to the Super Bowl, when the Patriots were playing the Packers in New Orleans.
Even got me a hotel room, which was impossible to get that weekend.
He gave and gave and gave and gave.
He had a monarch’s volcanic generosity when it came to those within his circle.
And a Mafia don’s fervent need for abject loyalty from his capos and soldiers.

But never mind us!
What about what he was doing for the culture?
Making stunningly splendid films at a time when everyone else was cranking-out simpering “INDEPENDENCE DAY” rip-offs.

It was glorious.
All of it.

So what if he was coming on a little strong to some young models who had moved mountains to get into one of his parties?
So what if he was exposing himself, in five-star hotel rooms, like a cartoon flasher out of “MAD MAGAZINE” (just swap robe for raincoat!)
Who were we to call foul?
Golden Geese don’t come along too often in one’s life.

Which goes back to my original point:
Everybody-fucking-knew.
But everybody was just having too good a time.
And doing remarkable work; making remarkable movies.

As the old joke goes:
We needed the eggs.

Okay, maybe we didn’t NEED them.
But we really, really, really, really LIKED them eggs.
So we were willing to overlook what the Golden Goose was up to, in the murky shadows behind the barn…

And for that, I am eternally sorry.
To all of the women that had to suffer this…
I am eternally sorry.
I’ve worked with Mira and Rosanna and Lysette.
I’ve known Rose and Ashley and Claire for years…
Their courage only hangs a lantern on my shame.
And I am eternally sorry to all those who suffered in silence all this time.
And have chosen to remain silent today.

I mostly lost touch with the brothers by the early 2000s.
For no specific reason.
Just that there were other jobs, other studios.
But a few months ago, Harvey called me, out of the blue.
To talk about the bygone days.
To talk about how great it would be to get some of the gang back together.
Make a movie.
He must have known then the noose was tightening.
There was a wistfulness to him that I had never heard before.
A melancholy.
It most assuredly had a walking-to-the-gallows feel.
When we hung up I wondered: “what was that all about?”
In a few short weeks I would know.
It was the condemned man simply wanting to comb some of the ruins of his old stomping grounds.
One last time.

So, yeah, I am sorry.
Sorry and ashamed.
Because, in the end, I was complicit.
I didn’t say shit.
I didn’t do shit.
Harvey was nothing but wonderful to me.
So I reaped the rewards and I kept my mouth shut.
And for that, once again, I am sorry.

But you should be sorry, too.
With all these victims speaking up…
To tell their tales.
Shouldn’t those who witnessed it from the sidelines do the same?
Instead of retreating to the cowardly, canopied confines of faux-outrage?
Doesn’t being a bystander bring with it the responsibility of telling the truth, however personally disgraceful it may be?

You know who are.
You know that you knew.
And do you know how I know that you knew?

Because I was there with you.

And because everybody-fucking-knew.

Trump Supporters Fall For Hitler Based Social Experiment.

Here’s a video taken by SoFlo in which they seek out supporters of Donald Trump and conduct a simple social experiment. The interviewer reads out various quotes attributed to Trump and ask those supporters if they agree with them.

Like most social experiments there’s always a twist and this one centres around the fact the quotes are actually from Adolf Hitler and not from Donald Trump. The results, as always, are frightening.

Cognitive dissonance is a hell of a thing.

Moronic Scottish Politician Claims Russia Is Invading Scotland.

It’s healthy and downright sensible to disbelieve pretty much every word a politician vomits up, especially if you live in Britain, or more specifically Scotland.

Yesterday in Westminster there was a debate about the renewal of Trident on the River Clyde, a process which is going to cost the tax payer a princely sum of £100b. As those for and against argued and debated Labour MP Brian Donohoe made the startling claim that Russian submarines were currently sailing up the Clyde.

That’s right, according to Donohoe those sneaky Russians under the orders of Putin himself were invading Scotland and he was the only man in the country who knew about it. Of course a quick cursory glance out of my window, which looks over the Clyde, confirmed that he was in fact talking a power of absolute shite…it was the North Koreans!

red-dawn-wolverines-o

Sarah Palin Thinks It’s Cool To Stand On Dogs.

palin 2

The only time I’ve ever stood on a dog or any other animal for that matter has been entirely accidental and I felt guilty about it for hours.

Sarah Palin on the other hand thinks that standing on animals is a fucking gas, in fact it’s one of life’s necessities if they’re blocking your way. The picture above shows her 6 year-old son Trig standing on their family dog as he washed dishes. She posted the image onto Facebook on New Years Day, obviously beaming with pride over her son’s actions, but was immediately met with criticism.

Still the picture got 50,000 likes in less than 24 hours.

palin-gun

 

 

Black Pedestrian Stopped By Cop For Walking With His Hands In His Pockets.

The tension between black communities and white cops in America is at an all-time high following the recent developments in Ferguson, Missouri. In the video above Brandon McKean, a young black man, is stopped by a cop in his patrol car in Pontiac, Michigan, because someone reported him for walking down the street with his hands in his pockets on Thanksgiving afteroon, regardless of the fact it was a freezing cold day.

The officer stopped Brendon because he felt he was acting suspiciously and when challeneged he explained that there had been a high number of robberies in the area. Choosing to ignore of course all the other white people who were walking down the street with their hands in their pockets.

 

The FBI Sent A Letter To MLK Urging Him To Commit Suicide.

KING

Back in 1964 the FBI allegedly sent Martin Luther King, the African-American Civil Rights leader an anonymous letter which stated that if he didn’t kill himself in 34 days information about his sexual indiscretions would be made public. In what was essentially a blackmail letter penned for the sole purpose of eradicting King forever.

The dark and disturbing letter was recently published in the New York Times after it was discovered by historian and professor Beverly Gage and serves as evidence as to the dirty tricks the intelligence agencies were actively involved in back then. What indeed are they currently up to?

(via eff)

David Cameron’s Conference Rap.

Prime Minister David Cameron only finished his closing speech at this year’s Conservative conference in Birmingham a couple of hours ago and already the Internet is burning up with a perfect parody video.

Thanks once again to the skills of Cassetteboy, Cambot take a satirical savaging. In fact I actually believe this speech more than the bile which just fell out of his word hole.

For those interested here are the lyrics in full:

I’m hardcore and I know the score
And I am disgusted by the poor
And my chums matter more
Because we are the law
And I’ve made sure
We’re ready for class war
Taking money from the man who works long hours
Giving power to the tycoons in the glass towers
That is why I can look you in the eye
And say This is the party of the motherfuckers
We don’t care about them other suckers
Because this is the party of the motherfuckers
And no, I don’t think that’s a dirty word
So let the beat drop
I come here with flows right from the top
Everybody knows if you work in a shop
We won’t help you, and do you know what?
People rising from the bottom to the top
Has got to stop
We have the bravery
To bring back slavery.
Working in a supermarket
Is just the start of it
My friends
There is no job at the end of it
You will be working for your benefits
Forever.
Let me get this off my chest
Saying yes
We are selling the NHS
And we’ll give you less
And that is just for starters
Even after privatising sticking plasters
It is a social disaster
That makes our hearts beat faster
Now, I am you master
The last thing this country needs is
Us, the Conservatives
Worse than the alternative
We don’t care
if you’re driven to despair
Don’t you dare say
It’s not fair
I’m not saying it’s not funny
It is for me, I’ve got loads of money
This is the party of the motherfuckers
The country is run for me and my muckers
This is the party of the the motherfuckers
We just don’t care about them other suckers