Not enough Hollywood people read Bruce Feirstein, the screenwriter who pens the New York Observer‘s “New Yorker’s Diary” from Los Angeles. (That balances out Tad Friend, who writes The New Yorker’s “Letter from California” from New York.) I especially like what the witty Feirstein — who also writes humor for Vanity Fair — says this week about the Pellicano scandal, and not just because he mentions me:
“The Pellicano Case: Recently, I met with a talent manager who hired Anthony Pellicano during the mid-1990’s, on behalf of a movie-star client with a female-stalker problem. As the manager recounted it, their first meeting eerily foreshadowed Jared Paul Stern: ‘Pellicano offered us a laundry list — a menu — and asked exactly how far we wanted to take this,’ the manager said. ‘Nobody can plead naïve here. We all knew exactly what we’d bargained for and what we were getting billed for.’ And now all of Hollywood waits, with a mixture of glee and horror, endlessly clicking on Nikki Finke’s DeadlineHollywoodDaily.com to see who’s getting indicted next. As the manager put it, ‘Everybody’s going to turn. These are wimpy white guys; they’re not going to jail.’ He’s right. It isn’t like John Gotti and the Mafia. You don’t get to run a studio— greenlighting Ben Stiller pictures—from a prison cell. As I’ve written before, Hollywood has become a meaner and nastier place over the past few years. Lots of little people chasing big, soul-crushing dreams. None of this is surprising. It used to be: ‘It’s not enough for me to succeed; I want my friends to fail.’ These days, the expression is: ‘It’s not enough for me to succeed; I want my friends to get indicted.’”
I know exactly what Feirstein means: it’s ghoulish the way players in this town are salivating for the next Pellicano indictment, and hoping it’s a big Hollywood name.