The Specifically Jewy Perviness of Harvey Weinstein
The disgraced film producer is a character straight out of Philip Roth, playing out his revenge fantasies on the Goyim
By Mark Oppenheimer
From the Jewish
Tablet Magazine, October 9, 2017
[ Note from Radio Islam: Since this article was
published Oppenheimer was forced to publish an apology to his Jewish
co-tribesmen/women
]
At first squint, Harvey Weinstein seems like a very familiar
type. Isn’t he the old, same old, another rich, entitled, powerful
man with a bad dye job abusing his might to coerce women into sex?
Isn’t Harvey just like Roger Ailes, or Bill O’Reilly, or, for that
matter, Bill Clinton? But look at the details of the case and you’ll
see that the answer is no. Harvey is different. Harvey, sadly, is a
deeply Jewish kind of pervert.
As despicable as you may find Ailes, O’Reilly, and the other
grabby goyim, you’ll recognize their behavior fits a pattern as old
as time itself, as trite as Fox’s complaints about the “war on
Christmas”: Men crave sex, and the worst of them will obtain it by
whatever means necessary. These despicable gents have power and
influence, and they aren’t above promising a lucrative gig—or
threatening to take it away—to get laid. In these transactions,
women are nothing but objects, and any “consent” is just an
illusion. Morally, the men are no better than the pimps who crowd
into James Franco’s character’s bar on The Deuce, the new
HBO show; psychologically, they are no more complex than the johns.
Cash in, cum out. The women are collateral damage.
Harvey did something unique—no less odious, but different. Harvey
performed. As we now are hearing (whether we want to or not), he
allegedly
made a woman watch as he masturbated into a potted plant. And if
you want to understand this bizarre behavior, don’t look to Roger
Ailes, or David Vitter, or Paul Crouch—look to Philip Roth.
Better than perhaps any other author, Roth captured the
particular anxiety of the Jewish American man in the twentieth
century, finally coming into power but, having not grown up with it,
unsure of what he’s supposed to do now. All those years craving
unattainable Gentiles, but never before the means to entice them.
The result is Alexander Portnoy of Portnoy’s Complaint, a
grown man whose emotional and sexual life is still all one big
performance piece, just as it had been when he was a teenager and
pleasured himself with a piece of liver.
As a boy, Portnoy fantasized about attaining a mythical shiksa
goddess whom he nicknamed Thereal McCoy (get it?), who ice-skates
“in her blue parka and her red earmuffs and her big white
mittens—Miss America, on blades! With her mistletoe and her plum
pudding (whatever that may be),” but as a grown-up he graduates to
the real woman he nicknames The Monkey. And what does he do to abase
her? He has her perform with an Italian whore. Yes, he eventually
joins in, but not before they enact a bad movie—not Hollywood, but
San Fernando Valley triple-X. And his nickname for her, The Monkey?
That comes from an episode in her life, from before Portnoy met her,
when a couple swingers picked her up and wanted her to eat a banana
while she watched them copulate. For having a past that gets him
hot, she gets degraded with an animalistic nickname. Her history as
an actor is what he wants her for.
Harvey is cut from the same cloth. Growing up in Queens, he
fantasized of fame and fortune, and, once he got them, he struggled
to maintain them by building himself into a larger-than-life figure.
He yelled at employees like he was a studio boss from the 1920s—the
only thing missing was a riding crop. He ran Oscars campaigns like
they used to in Old Hollywood. And he harassed women not necessarily
to use them as instruments of his pleasure, but to use them as
instruments of his power.
It goes without saying that nearly every one of these women—Rose
McGowan, Ambra Batillana, Laura Madden, Ashley Judd, etc.—was a
Gentile, all the better to feed Weinstein’s revenge-tinged fantasy
of having risen above his outer-borough, bridge-and-tunnel Semitic
origins. But it turns out there was a Jew(ess) in the bunch, none
other than
Lauren Sivan, of the potted-plant episode. In that small way, he
inadvertently broke out of the Portnoy mold, performing his
inadequacies not for the great all-American odeon but for a woman
who could be his cousin. Harvey can run from who he is, but he can’t
hide.
