The W(b)itches of Harvey Weinstein

Witches Water Skiing

I spend a lot of time holding the fridge door open looking for answers.

Unimpressed by it all, dull and oblivious of the degree of hypocrisy in the world; I keep staring at the apricot jam that has been lying on the top shelf of my fridge since 1996.  Some things are, truly forever. Like apricot jam, of course. Oh, and bitchcraft.

Hollywood is a micro-society. Supposedly, let’s say that every society is like a human evolution pyramid, but reversed. At the top we have the Australopithecus Robustus, and at the bottom the Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Pretty fucked-up, hum?

It’s no surprise the most powerful individuals on Earth are, as Holly Golightly would put it – super rats.

Harvey Weinstein, for example, perfectly fits the stereotype: a half-bald headed, fat, ruthless, depraved son of a diamond cutter.

The world it’s such a roundabout ridiculous cliché, I mean, can’t you see why it is so difficult to quit smoking?

As you all know by now, many actresses have come out with sexual harassment accusations, following a New York Times investigation on the infamous mischiefs of Mr.Weinstein.

The news comes as no surprise, considering the fact that Hollywood has a history for bitchery. Before H.Weinstein there was D.Zanuck, film producer and studio executive, who was an habitué of the casting-couch. His office was basically a boudoir.

He surely wasn’t the only one, but that was the deal: desperate half-brained actresses would negotiate their flesh for some of that red-carpet flash. Yes, it was a flesh-flash deal.

Sadly, things have remained unchanged today. As an actress, I’ve been there too. I’ve met a few weirdos who promised me the world in exchange of some warm embraces. I’ve never accepted such trade, but I wonder where would I be now if I did. Probably up hill, complaining with the other witches.

Breaking news: perverts are out there kids, since the beginning of times, and so are prostitutes. What’s the big deal?

But, why shall this ugly story become a feminist crusade? What’s exactly feminist about it?

Wait a moment. Rewind. So, many Hollywood actresses are complaining about Mr.Pig avances in the past. Check. These actresses had major roles in Mr.Pig movies, some won a considerable amount of prices, gained international acclaim and quite frankly, hit the jackpot. Check-check.

It seems like all of these women are playing innocent victims of the bad fat guy. Harvey Weinstein is a King Pig, and there’s no question about it but the trade seems fair to me. There are many ways to success, these actresses chose the easiest one (and we’re ok with it, it’s a Hollywood tradition), but why exploiting it?

They are now praised by the media as survivors, the spokeswomen of a new, braver generation of feminists.

Feminism. I hate that word. What does that even mean? To be a liberated bitch? I mean witch. To each his own convenient meaning, I guess.

Maybe, but only maybe, women should learn to keep it down with w(b)itchcraft. That’s the reason number one of why men mistreat us and disrespect us in the first place. If there are so many women happily willing to use their bodies for trade, then we got it all wrong.

Instead of encouraging women to hate men and seek revenge, because that’s what’s happening, we should instead teach them to be graceful, cultivated and opinionated. Oh, but that’s just a dream of mine.

Another fancy term will come up, and we’ll yet have another reason to hate each other.

But after all, it’s funny that way.

Happy Halloween!

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From Russia with love

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Summer: most people are fainting under white and blue umbrellas on the beach, worshipping the sun and all the frivolity that comes with it.

Paris: Dali’s melting clock. An open-air oven, more than Sylvia Plath could ever dream of.

I’m fed-up of wearing ugly Birkenstocks and drink naturally mulled wine. The darkness of cinema, seems to be my only comfort, a spark of civilisation.

So, I just completely spontaneously booked a one week solo trip to Saint-Petersburg, Russia.

It might sound random to you, but an actress needs to draw inspiration from somewhere, sometimes.

(The picture above represents myself as zombie Anna Karenina back among the living to find her long lost love Count Alexis Kirillovich Vrosky)

I’ll stay away from train stations, maybe.

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