My guess is that up until two weeks ago, the name of Harvey Weinstein meant little if anything to most people, including readers of this magazine.
My own knowledge was rudimentary, at best. As a consumer of newspapers and lifelong insomniac with a television set, I was aware that he was a very successful and well-publicized “independent” film producer, particularly adept at campaigning for, and winning, Oscar nominations and trophies. But as my long-suffering wife can attest, contemporary cinema is not a passion of mine, and the list of Harvey Weinstein movies I have failed to see (Pulp Fiction, Shakespeare in Love, The Crying Game, Good Will Hunting, The Lord of the Rings, etc.) is considerably longer than the single Weinstein film (The English Patient) I am confident I once saw—well, most of it, anyway—on cable.
