Harvey Weinstein was a name everyone in Hollywood knew—whether they liked it or not.
He co-founded Miramax, the indie powerhouse that dominated the awards circuit in the late '80s and '90s, before Disney bought the company in the mid-'90s.
For years, Miramax was synonymous with daring, prestige cinema, and Harvey was at the center of it all.
After a very public fallout with Disney in the early 2000s, he and his brother Bob launched a new venture—The Weinstein Company (TWC)—in 2005.
By the time his empire began to crumble in 2018, Weinstein's track record was staggering: over 300 Oscar nominations and 81 wins under his belt.
He was widely considered the most effective lobbyist in the history of the Academy Awards—and perhaps its most controversial.
Weinstein's methods were both admired and despised.
On one hand, he was relentless, pouring millions into Oscar campaigns for his films.
On the other, his tactics often left rivals furious, accusing him of turning the awards into a cynical game of influence.
He would buy massive ad spreads in Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, blitz Academy members with film screenings accompanied by lavish free dinners, and send targeted mailers—including DVDs and glossy brochures—directly to voters' homes.
His 1998 campaign for Shakespeare in Love was the stuff of legend (or infamy, depending on who you asked). Weinstein reportedly spent $15 million on that Oscar push, ultimately snatching Best Picture from Saving Private Ryan—a move that shocked the industry.
To many, it was clever marketing.
To others—especially competing filmmakers—it was sabotage, a strategy that undercut artistry with sheer force of money and manipulation.
Weinstein mastered the darker arts of "category gaming," pushing actors into less competitive categories to increase their odds.
He famously campaigned Kate Winslet for Best Actress in 2009 for The Reader, despite her having less screen time than her co-star—and less than some of her competitors.
He also exploited the Academy's preferential ballot system, encouraging voters to mark his films as their second or third choice, quietly tipping the scales.
To festival purists, he made the awards feel rigged.
But the truth was, many in the industry played similar games—just never as aggressively, or as successfully, as Harvey.
And technically, everything he did was within the rules… at least on paper.
But Weinstein's true power play only came into full light after the scandals of 2017 broke open.
Jihoon had heard whispers about how deep Weinstein's influence ran, but as the truth unfolded, the scope was staggering.
He wasn't just running ads and hosting dinners—he was actively identifying voters by name, calling them directly, and pressuring them to back his films.
He used star power like a weapon, deploying A-list allies—Meryl Streep, Gwyneth Paltrow, Quentin Tarantino—to charm and sway votes.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, he was allegedly threatening rival producers to pull their films from competing categories, planting flattering press pieces about his own movies while seeding negative rumors about others.
Gifts, favors, money, even women—Weinstein had no shortage of "incentives" to offer the right people.
Over the years, he built an inner circle of Hollywood heavyweights whose careers he had helped ignite—Quentin Tarantino, Gwyneth Paltrow, Matt Damon, Jennifer Lawrence.
To outsiders, it looked like loyalty.
To insiders, it was leverage.
The bigger these stars became, the more power Weinstein wielded at studios and film festivals.
He could trade favors, secure deals, and tilt the playing field in his favor because he had talent—and the influence that came with it—on his side.
It was no secret that Weinstein was greedy.
People in the business had long whispered about his bullying, his volcanic temper, his habit of steamrolling anyone who got in his way.
So when reports broke in 2017 accusing him of sexual harassment, assault, and even rape, the shock inside Hollywood wasn't about what he had done—it was that the truth had finally breached the walls.
The stories had been circulating for years before they hit the headlines.
Some actresses had already spoken privately about his behavior, but those accounts were buried under non-disclosure agreements, payoffs, and outright threats.
He had a way of making problems disappear, silencing anyone who might damage his empire.
In court, even darker details emerged.
While there was no concrete proof he was tied to organized crime, accusations flew that he kept Italian mobsters on his payroll for intimidation work.
The FBI investigation revealed something even more chilling: Weinstein had hired a former Mossad agent—a trained spy—to track and gather information on his accusers, creating the impression that any move against him would be met with serious consequences.
To the public, this was jaw-dropping.
The idea that one of Hollywood's most famous producers would deploy espionage tactics to scare women into silence felt like something out of a political thriller.
But to Jihoon, it wasn't shocking at all.
In his past life, he'd crossed paths with Weinstein and been threatened himself.
He knew exactly what kind of man Harvey was—ruthless, calculating, and unafraid to use fear as a weapon.
This time, though, things were different.
Jihoon wasn't alone.
With Fox standing behind him, Weinstein wouldn't dare pull the same stunt.
The "Big Six" studios were power on a scale even Weinstein couldn't match.
And to them, Harvey was just a man holding a borrowed baton—loud while it lasted, but easily silenced if he ever tried to disrupt their own interests.
And speaking of the shadow hands that worked this town, Jihoon spotted him.
Harvey was already waddling toward them, champagne flute in hand, his bulk parting the crowd like a slow-moving ship.
He was morbidly obese now, his once-dark hair reduced to a thinning gray, his jowls heavy and sagging.
His small, deep-set eyes glimmered with a mixture of mischief and calculation.
He raised his glass as he reached them. "It's been a while, Jim," he said, his lips curling into a smirk.
Then, with a flick of his wrist toward Jihoon, he added, "I hear this so-called import talent is your new favorite?" His tone was joking on the surface, but to those who heard it, the words carried nothing but mockery.
Jim, in mid-conversation with a Disney executive, didn't even turn to look at him. He kept speaking to him, his tone steady, as if Harvey wasn't standing there at all.
The snub was deliberate.
In circles like this, Harvey wasn't a kingmaker anymore—he was a sideshow. People at Jim's level tolerated him the way one tolerates a noisy street performer: with mild annoyance and polite distance.
Unbothered, Harvey shifted his focus to Jihoon, who stood there wearing the same polite smile he offered to everyone.
To someone who didn't know better, Jihoon might have looked like a wide-eyed newcomer, still finding his footing in Hollywood.
But those who truly knew him understood he was something else entirely—a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Harvey didn't know that.
"You must be this year's Oscar winner for Best Screenplay," Harvey said, his voice dipped in mock charm.
Jihoon's smile never wavered. "Yes, I am," he replied evenly. "Nice to meet you, Big Guy."
But behind the polite tone, his eyes held the glint of someone watching a circus act—amused, detached, as if Harvey were nothing more than a funny clown.