The media buzzards are circling The Weinstein Company. The rumors of imminent collapse that have circulated for weeks now have something to land on – the fact that Bob and Harvey have hired financing consultants Miller Buckfire to help restructure their finances.
Michael Ovitz should officially hand over the keys of the kingdom to a fast-talking, trash-mouthed, steam-rolling successor to his Hollywood dominion.
It is a rare moment in time and space that allows Ariel Zev Emanuel to hold the kind of power that even Ovitz could only dream about, chronicled today on the front page of the New York Times and concurrently noted by Kim Masters at the Daily Beast.
Updating Friday: Here's a bit of context, and I will continue to update this post as I report out the story.
Why do we care about this memo? It's exactly the kind of thing that never gets revealed in Hollywood. While there's plenty of gossip and speculation about who makes how much at the talent agencies, these are all privately-owned companies, and these numbers never become public. (This still doesn't answer the question of who would want this released, and why; clearly there's an agenda to embarrass somebody.)
The cognoscenti of new media were gathered not-terribly-early beneath the soaring, molded plaster ceilings of Balthazar’s, a famous, French-style bistro with heavenly croissants and great big masses of flowers in vases, perched at the corner of Spring and Broadway.
It was 9:30, and the vibe was laid-back-about-to-inherit-the-power-from-those-big-money media-moguls-uptown-we-can-wait-a-month.
June. Summer. L.A. School’s out. Suddenly you can drive down Wilshire Boulevard at 5 p.m. and move more than 25 feet at a time. No one’s tearing to soccer practice, or late to a basketball game, or trying to make a guild screening or poach a client or close a contract.
Most of that stuff’s on slow-go anyway, and on top of it -- it’s summer. You get to the Federal Building and the 405, and it is possible to discern an intersection, rather than a parking lot.
It was a beautiful afternoon in late June, a perfect day for a garden party. The stately home in Brentwood was filled with flowers and high-school graduates, while smoke from the grilling of kebabs billowed up along the Italian-style roofline of the house.
Outside in the garden, prominent members of Los Angeles’ Iranian-American community sipped pomegranite mixers and debated the situation in Iran.
Michael Jackson’s life is a modern day tragedy.
A star at 11, a teen idol as an adolescent and the King of Pop before he hit 30, Jackson spent what should have been the best years of his life confused, hounded and haunted, an Alice in Wonderland creature in a world of pop culture that he helped to create.
We all must mourn twice today. First, the loss of a great musical and stage talent. But that person disappeared long ago.
