Harvey began our conversation by informing me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an idiot who ruined everything. I was used to the Obamaworld style of criticism (not mad, just disappointed), and Harvey’s high-volume fury rattled me. What if he was right?
But then Harvey told me I was in way over my head, and suddenly my spirits lifted. This second explanation made way more sense. There was no good reason for our conversation to be taking place. I was powerless to either help or undermine. All I could do—all I had to do—was suffer verbal abuse. Seen in that light, being hectored by Harvey Weinstein was like getting punched in the face by Muhammad Ali. At one point, with impressively dramatic flair, he asked whether I thought he might know a thing or two about storytelling.
“Of course,” I said, hoping flattery might work. “I’m a big fan of your movies.”
“Oh yeah? Do you know how many times I’ve been nominated for an Oscar? Three hundred and four! More than any studio.”
Harvey continued in this vein for several minutes. Then he came to an abrupt halt, like a pair of windup toy dentures at the end of their run. “So,” he said calmly, “let’s give them all the time they need, and forget about these watch parties. Okay?”
My year in government had not made me any better at replying to powerful people. I tended to stammer, unsure how confident to sound. But to my surprise, Harvey’s anger had been liberating.
“I think you’re looking for someone who can actually make a decision,” I said. “Why don’t I find an important person and have them call you?”
I made good on my promise, and eventually it was agreed that all talk of house parties would be scrapped. The two actresses would still be limited to seven minutes, but they would now be free to give separate speeches, each in a three-and-a-half-minute block. For the first time all day, I relaxed. It seemed the worst was over.
It was not. It turned out I hadn’t been the only one to receive a call from Harvey Weinstein. He had spoken one-on-one with Kerry, too. Like Scarlett, she was now spooked, unsure whether to trust me with her draft. Then, just a few hours later, Jeff got a Harvey call of his own. Before my boss could start speaking, the windup dentures were unleashed.
“You like speeches? Good, because you’re about to hear one!”
You had to give Harvey credit for his opening lines. And for message discipline: among other things, he asked Jeff how many times he’d been nominated for an Oscar.
As the Wednesday-night program started, I still had a half dozen speeches on my plate. Secretary Duncan. Cristina Saralegui. DWS. But the Harvey/Scarlett/Kerry drama had completely sapped my energy. These seven minutes of remarks were occupying nearly 100 percent of my time. There was a brief respite around 10 P.M., when our team squeezed onto the floor to see Bill Clinton. But even this didn’t last. Only minutes after I returned to the referees’ locker room, Scarlett’s draft landed in my inbox. It was heartfelt and well written. Unfortunately, it was also long—over one thousand words when it was supposed to be under five hundred.
In any other setting, no one would be annoyed to get four extra minutes of Scarlett Johansson’s time. But her speech was the same night as the president’s. We simply could not allow speakers to go long. While the rest of our team left the arena, desperate to catch some sleep, I stayed behind to trim the draft. By 2 A.M., I had a version I thought would make everybody happy. I sent it to Scarlett, left the arena, and had just reached the hotel lobby when I felt an unmistakable, sickening buzz. I checked my phone.
Edits!
vibrate
Sorry, no internet!
vibrate
Throughout the history of this great country we have fought & stru
vibrate
ggled
It was Kerry, stranded somewhere without e-mail, sending me her draft in a series of texts. I waited for the deluge to finish—forty-five messages in all. Then, too tired to ask how badly she had exceeded the word limit, I plunged into a far from restful sleep.
TO MY SURPRISE, THE CONVENTION’S FINAL MORNING BEGAN WITH relief: Kerry’s draft was on message! It was also approximately the appropriate length. But the good news ended there. When I e-mailed Scarlett to ask if she had received my revisions, I didn’t hear back. I tried again after an hour. Same result. The actresses took off from Los Angeles. They landed in Charlotte. They were on the way to the arena. Still, no word. It was only a few minutes before speech prep that I finally got an e-mail, and even this wasn’t from Scarlett herself. It was from a publicist.
Scarlett has decided to use her version.
Harvey says it will be fine.
I had no idea how to handle the situation. Luckily, Erik Smith did. He decided we would play good cop, bad cop. He also decided I would be the bad cop.
There was only one minor hiccup: he neglected to share either of these details with me. The moment both Scarlett and Kerry were in the room, Erik became a fountain of obsequious charm. We were so happy to have them. They were so important to the campaign. Then he turned to me.
“This is David. He’ll talk with you about time.”
Before Scarlett and Kerry could argue, and before I could protest, Erik ushered the three of us into a tiny cubicle down the hall. Giant bold lettering identified the office as belonging to our campaign manager:
* * *
JIM MESSINA
* * *
But this was entirely for show. Half the size of my DNC workspace in Washington, the cubicle was practically unused. The only things in the room, apart from two stunning celebrities and a twenty-five-year-old sweating through his dress shirt, were a printer and computer on a desk. I sat on one side. Scarlett and Kerry took the other. I knew I had only a moment to earn their trust.
“Let’s start by printing out your drafts,” I said. I sounded firm, yet pleasant. So far, so good.
Then I hit control-P, and my reassuring smile flattened. Hardware is not my strong suit. I am the kind of person who readily concedes that the Amish have a point. And now the screen was displaying a printer error, a porridge of letters and numbers I had never seen before. Summoning tech support was out of the question. I didn’t know their number, and even if I did know it, I couldn’t afford to lose the appearance of control. Instead, I made firm eye contact with the star of ABC’s new hit drama and the woman Vulture.com named “The Smart Sex Symbol” of 2012.
“So,” I said, “do either of you know how to fix the printer?”
I could tell immediately that we were no longer on a first-name basis. Scarlett Johansson and Kerry Washington looked at me like I had just asked them to brush my teeth.