The Harvey Weinstein Prison Interview From Rikers: Exclusive

The day before I was to meet Harvey Weinstein, a blizzard dumped a foot of snow on New York, grinding the city to a halt. It seemed like an omen. Waking in my hotel the next morning, I half hoped that Rikers would be closed as well. Then my phone buzzed with a terse email from a prison administrator: “We’re on!” it said.

So, I called an Uber and nervously set off with a cameraman and a trunk full of recording equipment for the short voyage to Rikers, the notorious island facility in Queens where Weinstein has been incarcerated for much of the past six years.

Getting into Rikers is only slightly easier than breaking out of it. The Uber dropped us off at a parking lot outside the facility, where we waited in the frigid cold for a prison official to pick us up. Then, after an obstacle course of barbed-wire gates and metal detectors, we arrived at the crumbling cinder-block structure that Weinstein has called home for the better part of two years.

Over the past few years, the 73-year-old has been hospitalized for a laundry list of maladies: diabetes, a heart operation, cancer. Spinal stenosis keeps him in a wheelchair most of the time. Because of his infirmities, he is housed in a medical unit of the jail, away from the general population. Safety concerns keep him confined to his cell for 23 hours a day.

For me, this visit also was something of a reunion. I first encountered him in 1999, when I worked as editorial director of Talk magazine, the ill-fated monthly that Weinstein launched with the legendary editor Tina Brown. Our first meeting was not auspicious. I arrived at work to find an ashen-faced Tina slumped on a chaise in her office as Harvey, phoning in from a yacht trip to Capri, screamed profanities at her from a speakerphone.

That was the Harvey that many people remember — crude, profane and vindictive. But there was a different side to Harvey as well. He could be charming, funny and generous, an odd duality that some of his victims testified to in court. He was a keen judge of talent and stories, and fiercely loyal to his favorites. Our biggest fight, ironically, was over Gwyneth Paltrow, who went to be one of his most prominent critics. Once, after she appeared on Talk‘s cover, Harvey fumed that the story was too hard on her. “Don’t fuck with my fucking friends,” he bellowed, and angrily hurled the magazine at me.

But my most indelible memory of him came a few years later, during a trip we took to ground zero just days after 9/11, accompanied by Tina and Harvey’s then-PR chief, Matt Hiltzik. It was both a mission to deliver food to first responders and, for Harvey, a morbid flex. Downtown was shut off to everyone but emergency personnel. But Harvey had somehow secured a placard to get our car through the police roadblocks and checkpoints to the still-smoldering site. Balancing a giant soup tureen and a sack of sandwiches, we made our way through the rubble in stunned silence, punctured suddenly by Harvey’s baritone growl.

“Matt! Get me a bagel,” he yelled.

We all looked at him with amazement. “Harvey, the bagels are for the firemen,” Hiltzik finally replied.

“Don’t forget the cream cheese,” Harvey snapped.

Back then, at the apex of his career, Harvey mostly got a pass for appalling behavior. He was an A-list Hollywood producer with his mitts on magazines, theater, publishing and politics. He palled around with prime ministers and presidents. Then, in 2017, a set of blockbuster stories — in The New York Times and The New Yorker — revealed his history of sexual harassment and abuse, precipitating his dizzying fall from grace. Over the years, as his case dominated the news and set off a movement that took down scores of other prominent men accused of abuse, I couldn’t help but wonder what had become of that old Harvey. Had all those court cases and public disgraces dampened his hubris? What lessons had he gleaned from his reversal of fortune? How did he assess the tarnished legacy he had struggled so mightily to build? And what did he do all day?

The Harvey I remembered was fond of grand entrances, usually trailed by a pack of attentive aides. This Harvey just silently materialized — slumped in a wheelchair steered by a bored-looking corrections officer. He was much thinner and grayer and paler than I remembered him. His yellow prison jumpsuit blended with the yellow-painted room to give him a greenish tinge.

“And so,” he said theatrically, “we meet again.”

For the next hour — Rikers had limited the interview to 60 minutes — Harvey sat in a drafty conference room, his publicist, Juda Engelmayer, and a cluster of prison officials watching from the corner, and fielded questions about his daily life behind bars and the history of sex crimes that had landed him there. He cycled through a series of operatic emotions–pride, fury, self-pity, shame. But his eight years of incarceration had failed to inspire any genuine contrition. The world may have branded him a monster, but Harvey still considers himself a victim — crucified for a bygone era of Hollywood sins. When pressed, he concedes that his behavior may have been loutish, pathetic and even abusive. But he insists he’s no rapist — just an oversexed schmuck who made some stupid moves and accidentally launched a global social movement.

Unfortunately for him, three successive juries have disagreed. Since the first news stories appeared, close to 100 women have come forward to publicly accuse Weinstein of sexual misconduct, setting off an avalanche of civil and criminal legal proceedings that are still wending their way through the justice system in New York and California. His first New York trial, in 2020, ended in conviction on charges of rape in the third degree, with a sentence of 23 years in prison. But that conviction was overturned in 2024 — not on grounds of innocence but on a procedural ruling — with a 2025 retrial ending in a mixed verdict: a conviction on one count, an acquittal on a second charge and a mistrial on the third. In 2023 he received a 16 year sentence for rape and other crimes after a long jury trial in Los Angeles. The judge ruled that his term would run consecutively—not concurrently–with his New York sentence.

Our conversation was conducted in late January, a week before yet another verdict was expected in yet another New York retrial. Harvey made it clear that he hoped this interview — his first major sit-down since his arrest — would be published before then. (The trial has been rescheduled to begin April 14.) When our hour was nearly over, a Rikers representative ordered us to wind things down. Harvey slumped exhaustedly in his chair. But as the guard started to wheel him out of the room, the former mogul roused himself for one final pitch.

“You gotta get this out soon, Maer. I’ve given you a fucking world exclusive! Oprah begged me to talk to her. So did Tina Brown. NBC said …”

His voice trailed off as he was pushed down the hall back to his cell — but it would not be the last time I’d hear from him. For weeks afterward, he’d call me from Rikers dozens of times at all kinds of odd hours to make additional points. “I got Harvey on the line,” Engelmayer would announce, very Hollywood-like, then patch Weinstein in. (His comments have been incorporated into this transcript, which has been edited for length and clarity.)

After the interview, another guard arrived to lead the way back off to the barren, freezing parking lot in Queens. On the way out, I asked the officer what he knew about Weinstein’s life before prison. He shrugged. “He used to be somebody in Hollywood, right?”

I think we last saw each other at some premiere at the Four Seasons — like 25 years ago. That seems like a universe away. What’s a typical day like for you here?

I spend almost all of it in my cell. Sometimes I’ll go out in the wheelchair just to get some air, but that’s only half an hour. Mostly I’m in my cell 23 hours a day. I don’t have any human contact other than with the guards.

You don’t speak to other inmates?

I just speak to the guards. And the nurses. That’s the extent of my socializing here. There’s no socializing in my wing.

Why is that?

Because it’s Rikers Island and it’s hell. It was different when I was in state prison. I got up in the morning, I had breakfast, I saw friends, I spoke to people. We all watched TV together. I’ve been begging to go to state, but the DA’s office says, “Because you have a trial upcoming, you stay at Rikers. We want to keep an eye on you.” They kept an eye on me for 19 months now. I don’t know where they think I’m going.

Has your celebrity been a help or a hindrance?

Here at Rikers, it hurts me because it forces me into isolation. It’s too dangerous for me to be around anyone else. Other inmates get to go to the yard. But every time I’m out there, I feel like I’m under siege. They come up and say, “Weinstein, give me some money.” “Weinstein, give me your lawyer.” “Weinstein, do this.” “Weinstein, do that.” I’m constantly threatened and derided. I wouldn’t last long out there.

That didn’t happen to you upstate?

No. Because I was just one of the prisoners in a small group, and you get to know people that way. It’s lonely in prison. You just try to connect with people and not think too much about what got them there. I was friendly with one guy who read all the time — not like the Great Books, but writers David Baldacci or Harlan Coben. I turned him on to Daniel Silva, and he was very appreciative. When I was there, I volunteered to teach a course on how books become movies — like James Patterson and J.K. Rowling, like that. But they weren’t interested. I’ll try again if I ever make it back.

Has anyone hurt you physically?

One time while I was waiting to use the phone, I asked the guy in front of me if he was done. He got off and punched me hard in the face. I fell on the floor, bleeding everywhere. I was hurt really badly. The cops asked me who had done it, but I couldn’t say. You can’t be a rat. That’s the law of the jungle.

Do you make many phone calls?

Once every three hours I get about 16 to 18 minutes on the phone. That’s my lifeline. I speak to three of my children every single day: my oldest daughter, who is 30 now, and my 12-year-old and my 15-year-old. My other two children haven’t talked to me for six years. I also speak to my lawyers and to a few friends. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.

What do your younger kids know about your situation? What do you tell them about how you got here?

They know everything. They are old enough to google. But I told them I never sexually assaulted anyone, and they believe me. Back when I was in Bellevue, it was easier to see them. I won’t allow my daughter to come and see me here. My son-in-law takes my 12-year-old to visit sometimes. But it’s hard for him too. It’s emotionally crippling for him.

At your trial, you were constantly photographed with books under your arm. How do you get them?

I order them on Amazon, and they FedEx them to me. Sometimes a few a day. I’ve always liked to read, but there’s not much else to do here. You don’t get the Times at Rikers — the only paper here is the Daily News. But a friend sends me the Sunday Book Review every week.

Is there a particular kind of book you’re drawn to?

When I was on trial in L.A., I went through my whole high school curriculum. A Farewell to Arms. For Whom the Bell Tolls. Gatsby. I hadn’t read those books since I was 17. Reading them at 73 years old, trapped in a cell — it just hits differently. At Rikers I’m reading memoir after memoir. Graydon’s memoir. Barry Diller’s. Keith McNally’s, which was incredible. I just finished Tom Freston’s book, which was pretty good, actually. But then there’s a line in it that says, “I know Harvey Weinstein. He was a predator.” It’s just one line. But it broke my heart.

It’s interesting that a single line in a book still has that kind of impact on you. Aren’t you used to that by now?

Freston is someone I knew for many years. That he now thinks of me that way — it just hurts when people who were friends buy into it. It still bothers me.

Are you allowed to watch movies?

We all have a tablet that plays movies. Each one costs $4.95 to watch. Mostly it’s all big, mainstream hits — not art house stuff. But occasionally some little movie will sneak out of nowhere and be amazing. I just saw The Ballad of Wallis Island — Carey Mulligan executive produced it — and it’s the most wonderful movie. I wish I was around so I could have distributed that. They play my movies once in a while. The other day Good Will Hunting came up. I hadn’t seen it in 25 years. I watched it in my cell, and I thought, “Now that was pretty damn great.”

Do people in here talk to you about your movies? Do they pitch you scripts?

Not really. They only want to talk about Quentin Tarantino. It’s not really a Shakespeare in Love crowd. I do get scripts, but it’s mostly from college kids in the mail. They want to know what I think of their movies.

What do you tell them? Do you send them notes?

Not really. No. They’re usually not very good, but I try to be encouraging. I tell them to work a little harder.

Are you still following the industry? Do you read the trades?

Oh yeah. I can’t help myself. I read them religiously. I still talk to Hollywood people on the outside. I’m a fanatical THR reader, you’ll be happy to know. But it always comes two weeks late.

I know you hired a prison consultant before you went to jail. What’s the best piece of advice he gave you?

It wasn’t one thing. He just helped me navigate this system. All the unspoken little rules and do’s and don’ts to watch out for. But he saved my life. When I got sick last year, I was freezing to death in my cell. For days, I couldn’t move. There’s no doctor here. We’re on Rikers Island — all these prisoners and no doctor. Finally, I called Craig Rothfeld and begged him, “Please help me. I’m sick. I don’t know what to do.” He got on the phone and they shipped me to Bellevue. I had a heart operation the next day. A day later and I would have been gone. I have bone marrow cancer. I’m dying here. And the DA’s idea is probably to have me dying in prison. But I am dying.

Do you worry about the possibility that you may die here?

It’s scares the shit out of me. Cold and heartless. It’s incredible to have the life that I had and the things that I did for society and not have the leniency to deal with me in a kinder way. Whatever they think I did bad in my life, I didn’t get the death penalty. I’m going to be 74 in March. I don’t want to die in here.

As we are recording, the world has been fixated on the Jeffrey Epstein story. Did you know him?

No. I maybe ran into him once or twice. He didn’t travel in my circles. We certainly were not friends.

The last time a story like Epstein’s generated so much global attention was when you were arrested. Does it play differently from your perspective? I know you feel that you’ve been unfairly accused, and you’ve complained about a media witch hunt. Do you feel that he too could be innocent?

No. I just know what I read in the papers — I can’t say one way or another. I don’t have a lot of faith in the media. Or prosecutors, either. But the crimes he’s charged with are really awful. They’re nothing at all like mine.

Let’s talk about your crimes. There are dozens and dozens of women who tell a variation of the same basic story. You followed them to their hotel rooms or trapped them in yours. You forced them to have sex with you. You got furious or retaliated when they turned you down. You claim that none of this is true. But what accounts for the uniformity of all these reports? Why do you think all these people are so willing to lie about you?

For a lot of reasons. But mainly because there’s money involved. You know, one woman got half a million dollars. Another got paid $500,000. A third got $3 million. All anyone had to do to walk off with a check was fill out a form that said I sexually assaulted them. So they filled it out, and the insurance company eventually paid out tens of millions of dollars. And Disney, too — Disney didn’t want a public fight, so they just paid people to go away. It becomes a bandwagon effect. People can say anything they want about me, and it’s in the public record. But very few of these stories have been litigated in court.

Some of your accusers — like Gwyneth Paltrow — were close friends. Others had worked with you for years. None of them took a cent. Are you really claiming that they’re all in it for money? Is there any part of you that acknowledges that you wronged them?

Did I make a pass at some of these women unsuccessfully? Did I overplay my hand? Yes. Was I pushy or overly seductive? Yes to all of that. Look, I should never have gone out with the people I went out with. I was married to a fantastic woman who had no idea what I was doing. I lied all the time. I improperly used my staff to hide these things. But did I ever sexually assault a woman? No. I never did that.

How much have you paid out in settlements since this began?

I haven’t paid for most of these settlements. Disney paid them. The insurance company paid them. But before all this, I personally spent a few hundred thousand dollars in settlements.

You made people sign all kinds of stringent NDAs and spent lots of money to keep them quiet. You hired PIs to monitor your accusers and the press. Isn’t that an indication of wrongdoing?

Yes, but the thing I was doing wrong was not sexual assault. It was cheating on my wife. I was desperate to keep that secret from her. I did not want Disney to find out. I did everything to protect myself from that kind of scandal.

You mentioned that your staff helped cover for you. Some of them walked young women to your room, fully knowing what was awaiting them there. Don’t they deserve some accountability for that?

No. There’s only one person who’s to blame. That’s me. These people were so happy to be at The Weinstein Co. or Miramax — to be at the center and apex of the industry — that they were willing to lie for me. And I pushed them to lie. My staff was great. They lied like champs. But I did it. It’s all on me. I will say, though, when a guy invites you to his hotel room in the middle of the night, you know what’s on the agenda.

Are you saying that everyone who went to meet with you knew they’d end up being groped and chased around the room?

Not at all. I had lots of people come see me. But there were some women who knew exactly what was expected. Maybe they felt bad later or they regretted it. Maybe they saw an opportunity for a payout. But not all of them were as naive as they liked to pretend.

Look at the last case. I lost Miriam Haley. But I was not guilty on Kaja Sokola, who said I raped her. We won because in her diary she wrote about four men who assaulted her. But the one line she wrote about me in her diary was that Harvey disappointed me. Harvey disappointed her because I didn’t make her a star. And a lot of these women were actresses and they didn’t get what they wanted.

She was a 20-something model. You were a world famous mogul. Do you acknowledge the power imbalance there? You were a powerful man who hated to be told no. I saw how scary that could be.

Yes, there was a power imbalance. I know I can be scary and difficult. But that’s still a long way from sexual assault. Over-flirtation, ridiculous situations. Bad and stupid behavior. Yes. But I didn’t push anybody. I didn’t physically move anybody. I didn’t do that, Maer. And I’ve taken lie detectors to prove it.

Listening to you, I can’t help but think of the Italian model in New York — Ambra Gutierrez — and the NYPD sting recording of you outside her hotel room. There was something about your behavior — the relentlessness, the aggression — that’s impossible to forget. If that wasn’t assault, what was it?

I think it was trying to be seductive, and I went too far. It was embarrassing and pathetic. But I never touched her. You never saw me put hands on her. They never even took her case to court.

You always fancied yourself such a tough guy. If any of these women had refused you, wouldn’t you have sought to punish them?

Absolutely not. I may be a tough guy, but I’m not deranged. Just the threat of Harvey was enough — maybe more than enough. But it didn’t go to the point of blackballing anybody. If the camera’s on, I’m just going to say Rosanna Arquette, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie — they just exaggerated. They wanted to be part of the club. And they destroyed me.

That’s a remarkable claim to make about women with nothing to gain. But they’re not the only ones. Peter Jackson says you told him not to work with Ashley Judd and Mira Sorvino.

Peter Jackson is the worst. For him it’s personal. He still resented me over what happened with [Miramax and] Lord of the Rings. So as soon as he sees I’m down, he says that I ordered him not to work with Ashley Judd or Mira Sorvino. It’s a complete fucking lie. If he says it again, I’ll sue him too. [Jackson did not return a request for comment.]

The truth is, I fought on my last breath to cast Ashley Judd in Good Will Hunting. I fought like a bastard to get her cast. But Gus and Matt insisted on Minnie Driver, and that was the end of that. And when Mira Sorvino’s husband needed a part in a TV show, I got another actor removed and put him in. The truth is, to retaliate against these women I would have needed the cooperation of the agencies. Call Ari Emanuel! Call Bryan Lourd! It never, ever, ever happened.

You’ve said you wanted to testify at your trial but were talked out of it. Do you regret that?

Yes. Because I could have explained it to a jury. These people were my friends. You don’t send someone emails saying “I love you” and “I miss you” and “come see me” after you’ve been sexually assaulted.

All those points were made at trial and didn’t move the jury.

Because the DA brought in a psychologist — paid $750 an hour — who testified that victims sometimes remain attached to their abusers. We didn’t refute that. We needed to refute it. And I was the one who should have done it, because no one knew the truth of these relationships better than me. My testimony would have made the difference.

How much money have you spent on your defense?

Millions and millions and millions.

Do you worry about running out?

Keeps me up at night. I had property and other income, but it’s not limitless. Disney cut off my insurance. You know how much I made for that company? Back at Talk Books, the editor, Jonathan Burnham, found Artemis Fowl, which sold 21 million copies. We bought Percy Jackson, which sold 200 million copies. I earned $1 billion in publishing off that one book. You know what my pension is from Disney? $60,000 a year. I earned billions and billions for Disney and they give me $60,000 a year. And my ex-wife Eve takes half of it.

Of the many women who have spoken out against you, Gwyneth Paltrow has been particularly upsetting to you. Why is that?

Because she was a good friend of mine. I don’t know what drove her to do what she did. To make such a big deal over nothing. I walked out of a nice meeting with her and said, “How about a massage?” And she just went, “No, I don’t think so.” I got the message. I never put my hands on her. She told Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt came to me and said, “Don’t do anything like that with my girl.” I said, “Don’t worry, Brad. I got it.” But then Gwyneth goes on Howard Stern and The New York Times and makes a big deal about it all. She knows that nothing happened. But this person who was a friend, who owes her career to me, just stabs me in the back. She wanted to be part of the crowd. I won’t forgive her for that.

Long before the Times and the New Yorker exposés, reporters had spent years digging into your behavior with women. David Carr spent six months at New York on a cover story that never ran. Other people might have stopped amid that sort of scrutiny. But you just persisted. Was that hubris? Self-destructiveness? Did you just think you’d never get caught?

Hubris is a good word. And it was obviously self-destructive. But these affairs took off some of the pressure of the life I was living. It was a temptation that was always there, and I always gave in. It was stupid and wrong.

In Greek tragedies, the hero is felled by a fatal flaw. What do you think yours was?

I overstepped my boundaries. That’s for sure. I could be a horrible bully. I used power in an arrogant way. I was pushy and insistent, and I feel terrible. I’m ashamed of that behavior, and I see it now in ways that I couldn’t before. Ironically, I distributed a movie called Bully, and GLAAD gave me an award for it. In my acceptance speech, I said, “The irony of me distributing Bully is not lost on anyone.”

Has this experience made you more introspective at all?

There’s no way you can avoid introspection because all you have to do in jail is deal with yourself. I think endlessly about what I would do differently if I had another chance.

And what would that be?

I would have respected those women more. I would never have been with them in the first place. I would’ve kept faithful in my marriage. I would’ve said, “I have a family. I will protect it.” I was a fool. I admit that.

Have you ever apologized to any of the women who brought charges against you?

I apologized to them generally. You can’t call them when you’re in a trial with them. But I’ll say it here today: I apologize to those women. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been with them in the first place. I misled them.

I’m not sure that’s much of an apology, honestly. It sounds like what you’re most regretful for is cheating on your wife. Are you sorry for your transgressions beyond that?

I misled them. I cheated on both my wives. That’s immoral. But I did not assault them. That is the big lie of all of this. I won’t apologize for something I didn’t do. I will be proven innocent. That I promise you.

From the outside, it seems your life has been ruled by your insatiable appetites — for power, for money, for food, for sex. Where do you think that comes from?

Some of it goes back to my childhood. Growing up, I remember my uncle being very wealthy and my father helping him get there and then my uncle not reciprocating. And I remember how much that hurt my dad, who was a good, honest man. But my uncle was powerful and wealthy, and I aspired to be like him rather than my beaten-up father. That’s where I lost my way. That’s what shaped my values a bit. I didn’t want to be the sucker in life.

What do you think fuels your behavior toward women?

I was married to Eve for a very long time — 17 years. I met Georgina [Chapman] a year and a half later, and we were married for another 12. I just never … I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man when I was younger, and then, at a certain point, it was too easy. A lot of these women came to me.

They came to you because you could make or break their future.

Sometimes, yes. And sometimes just because. Maer, believe it or not, I had an iota of charm.

I know two of your daughters changed their names and won’t speak to you. Have you tried to reach them?

Lots of times. They never respond. Their mother cut me off, too. It’s been radio silence from them ever since the allegations started.

Do you think you’ll ever be able to repair those relationships?

Yes, I do. I’m confident that I will — when I get out of here and I prove my innocence. I won the last appeal. I’ll win this one, too. When I lay in that cell and think about them, I just want them to know that I love them. I didn’t do the things they think I did.

Your brother, Bob, was intimately involved in building your company. But after the scandal, he cut you off, too. Was that a surprise to you?

No. Not at all. He’s desperate to work, and this killed his career, too. He just hopes that by shitting on me he can go back to work. But sadly for him, they will never let him go back to work. He’s stuck there with me. But it wasn’t a surprise. The last years of The Weinstein Co., there was lots of bad blood between us.

He’s said that your recklessness destroyed the company.

I destroyed the company? He destroyed the company. Look at his movies — one disaster after another. I saved the company! The King’s Speech, The Artist, Silver Linings Playbook. Hit after hit after hit. And it wasn’t just the films. I built our television company. People don’t know this, but one of the last things I did was bring Taylor Sheridan to Yellowstone. Sheridan wanted to cast Robert Redford, but I said, “You need to get Kevin Costner.” And it became a massive hit. But then this happened, and people forget.

Do you still speak to your ex-wife Georgina?

No, we don’t talk at all. She lets me see our children, which I am grateful for. I am sorry she got such a bad rap. She knew nothing about what I was doing. I was a master of deception. To punish her company is an act of insanity. All those women she dressed so beautifully abandoned her overnight. Have some courage, for God’s sake!

At the Oscars last year, Adrien Brody spoke movingly of his love for Georgina and your kids. Did that sting a bit?

No! I was happy. It’s good that my kids have someone in their lives. And Georgina suffered terribly because of me. I’m glad she’s finally found some happiness.

Are there other people who no longer speak to you whose silence is particularly painful?

Most of the people I knew have shut me out. Close friends. Family members. People who owe their entire careers to me. They all just disappeared overnight. I’m scared to call people because I don’t want them canceled for talking to me. This is a crazy culture. This is McCarthyism. I wish Jeffrey Katzenberg would take my call. I wish Ted Sarandos would. Bradley Cooper. I miss these people not just as business — there was more to it than that. But I’m cancel-itis. Toxic. You take my phone call and you get canceled. I get it. I don’t expect anyone to destroy their careers for me. But a few people risk it anyway. I won’t tell you who they are, obviously.

We’re in the middle of Oscar season, which was once your favorite time of year. You treated the Academy Awards like a blood sport — turned them from a staid affair into a brutal, expensive competition. Was that a good thing?

Before I got there, a bunch of big studios ran the Oscars. They just passed the awards among them. I made it possible for smaller indie movies to finally get attention. They complained that I fought dirty or made them too expensive. Fuck them. I fought hard for great movies because I loved them. Is that a bad thing?

Do you still get to watch them?

They knew I liked to watch, so when I was upstate, they brought a little TV so I could watch them with a few of my friends.

People used to joke that the only one thanked more than you was God. How does it feel to watch them from prison?

I try not to think about it too much. I just try to root for the movies I like. Though I haven’t really seen any of the movies this year. We only get second-run ones on the tablet.

Who are you rooting for this year?

It’s a two-man race — Paul Thomas Anderson and Ryan Coogler. I had the pleasure of working with both of them. I worked with Paul on The Master. I worked with Ryan on Fruitvale Station. These are two of the greats. I love Ryan — he’s the class of the field. When Paul Thomas Anderson and I made The Master, he came to me and said, “Is there somewhere we can cut? It’s long.” I watched it and said, “It’s a fucking masterpiece. I’m not cutting a frame.” He was the most gentlemanly of gentlemen. The Academy should declare a tie.

You once famously declared yourself “the sheriff of this fucking town.” Who’s the new sheriff?

First of all, I didn’t mean that. It was an ironic statement. Marty Scorsese called me right after and said, “Remember one thing — irony does not read well in print.”

Are there executives you really admire?

Ted Sarandos. He loves movies, he loves documentaries, he has incredible taste, and he built a company from nothing. The A24 guys are great, too. And Tom Quinn at Neon — look at him, fielding foreign-language movies, two of them nominated for best picture. People looked at Neon and said, “This is what you went with?” And he won because he’s great at what he does.

Hollywood has changed considerably since you were there — lots of layoffs and consolidation. What do you think about the industry?

I’m sad to see it. I’m sad that people don’t love movies enough to fight for them. I see Christopher Nolan and Quentin Tarantino on these lonely crusades and I wish I was out so I’d join them. These mergers are really bad. We need more movies, not less. And these short theatrical windows are killing the business! Movies need time to take off. People complain that I was a bully — that I was too tough on directors. But they can’t say I didn’t love movies. I love movies and I backed them up with the power and the bravado to do the right thing for cinema.

Your case touched off a global movement. Putting aside your own story, do you think the industry was due for a reckoning? Do you think #MeToo has been good for society?

I think so. If women were getting hurt or exploited, I think that was good.

And how do you feel about being the linchpin of that?

I don’t feel good about that at all. When Alyssa Milano said “Me too,” she didn’t mean #MeToo about Harvey. She said “Me too,” and then everybody said #MeToo about me. Every woman I was with, every friend that I had. It was a march to the money pile.

I know you spend a lot of time thinking about your legacy. When you’re gone, do you think you’ll be more known for your films or the scandal?

I don’t know. I hope for my movies. But I don’t know. Probably not.

Was there ever a point where you thought of taking your life?

No! Never! It got really dark for me, but I’d never do that to my kids.

What movies do you think you’ll be most remembered for?

Pulp Fiction and Shakespeare in Love — those were the most iconic movies I made. They represent the two sides of me. Shakespeare in Love is all the period films; Pulp Fiction is all the cool movies. My biggest regret was Confessions of Dangerous Minds, which George Clooney directed. It’s such an excellent film, but I fucked it up so badly. If I ever get out of here, I’ll buy the rights and rerelease it.

If you were making a movie about all this, how would you portray your own character? Villain? Victim? Tragic hero?

All three. I did flawed and ugly things. But I also did a lot of great things — I helped change the culture. I built a lot of careers. I was kind to a lot of people. I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. A survivor of my own flaws. But I’m in a tough situation, and I know it. I have to give myself pep talks because nobody else will.

You have lived this life of cinematic extremes — outsized power and wealth and fame, followed by public humiliation and disgrace. Sitting here, I keep wondering whether it’s all been worth it for you. Would you give up the Oscars and the acclaim if you could have avoided this and lived an ordinary life?

It’s a very interesting question, but thinking it over — the answer is yes. Prison is a great way to think about your choices and your priorities. All the Oscars and the big movies — I’m still really proud of them. But what good are they to me now? If I had to do it again, I would gladly make that trade. A life out of the spotlight, raising my kids and being with my family — that would have been a much better life.

This story appeared in the March 11 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. Click here to subscribe.