In 1997, I was just 23 years old when I encountered a harrowing situation that would forever change my perspective. Though I considered myself resilient, my experience with Harvey Weinstein was shocking and deeply emotional. As a model, I had encountered many predatory figures, and I had learned to fend off unwanted advances with a certain bravado. I had even defended other young women from inappropriate behavior, including a knife-wielding assailant on the Paris Metro, using laughter as my weapon. But despite my toughness, I remained a naive girl from New Zealand, trusting and unprepared for what lay ahead.
My meeting with Harvey took place at the Cannes Film Festival, where we found ourselves seated next to each other at an elaborate dinner. I didn’t initially catch his name, mistaking him for just another producer eager to pitch a film to the industry elite. In an effort to be friendly, I engaged him in conversation, only to discover later that he was the head of Miramax. We shared a mutual connection through a family friend, filmmaker Jane Campion, and I felt a sense of safety in our camaraderie.
After dinner, our group, which included my modeling agent and a few other attendees, made our way into the vibrant Cannes nightlife. Harvey and his assistant never left my side, and I felt entertained and at ease. My previous experiences in the South of France had made me somewhat jaded, but that night felt different, almost magical.
As the evening wore on, we arrived at a glamorous outdoor party. I was approached by a well-known musician who playfully called out to me, reminding me of a peculiar adventure from my past. In hindsight, I realize that my carefree attitude may have unintentionally sent the wrong signals to Harvey. I was comfortable in his presence and did not perceive any ulterior motives.
However, as midnight approached, my friends and I decided to leave. We were staying on a yacht in the bay and needed water taxis to get back. Harvey and his assistant offered us a ride, and I mistakenly separated from my group, accepting an invitation to join Harvey and a couple of his associates in a different car. I was naive to believe we were heading to the same destination.
The drive seemed longer than expected, and Harvey announced a “change of plans.” Instead of returning to the yacht, we were heading to the Hotel Du Cap for drinks. Once we arrived, we went up to Harvey’s hotel suite, expecting to wait for the others to join us. But as time passed, it became evident that they weren’t coming.
Suddenly, I found myself alone in that suite with Harvey Weinstein. My heart raced as he returned to the room, this time without clothes, and asked for a massage. Panic set in as I weighed my options. I tried to maintain a façade of calmness, expressing my discomfort and anger at being tricked into this situation. Harvey persisted, claiming he only wanted to give me a massage. My mind was racing as I plotted my escape, calculating the odds of being heard if I screamed.
At that moment, I felt the weight of the situation. I had been lured into a trap by a man who had a history of using his power to intimidate women. But rather than succumb to fear, I tapped into my anger and made a break for the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Harvey, undeterred, banged on the door and pleaded for me to come out.
In that tense moment, I found my voice, reprimanding him like a parent scolding a child. “This is unacceptable,” I said, demanding he cover himself. When I finally emerged, I found him in a bathrobe, visibly upset and pleading for forgiveness. My fury boiled over as I confronted him about his behavior, making it clear that I would not tolerate his actions.
After a somewhat surreal exchange, I insisted he get me home. His assistant, who appeared shaken, returned to escort me back to safety. During the car ride, Harvey rambled on about wanting to make me a star, which only added to the absurdity of the situation.
Once at the hotel, I was informed that I would be staying in the penthouse suite for the night. I triple-locked the door and finally allowed myself to process the night’s events. Waking my mother in Australia to share my story, I sought solace in a drink from the mini-bar. An acquaintance warned me that Harvey was notorious for returning to confront women after similar incidents, heightening my anxiety.
When morning arrived, I was relieved to finally board the water taxi back to the yacht, though my relief was short-lived. My group’s reactions to my ordeal made me feel dismissed and ashamed. To add insult to injury, I received a bouquet of roses from Harvey, which only deepened my humiliation.
Despite my insistence to avoid Harvey at all costs, my agent arranged for us to attend a private screening of a film later that evening. The moment I walked into the empty theater, I realized who had taken the seat directly behind me—Harvey. The mixture of anger and disbelief washed over me as the film began to roll.
Reflecting on this experience over the past two decades, I still feel a surge of rage at the pervasive culture of misogyny that allows powerful men to exploit women. Each time I recount my story, I am reminded of the need for change and the importance of speaking out against such behavior.
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In summary, my experience with Harvey Weinstein at the Hotel Du Cap was a shocking and terrifying encounter that underscored the vulnerability many women face. It’s a reminder of the importance of awareness, assertiveness, and the necessity of supporting one another in the fight against exploitation.