Through the years, Bob and Harvey had grown apart. Bob, always the withdrawn, less social of the two, at first moved his office to another floor, then to a separate building. Their bickering was infamous. Bob’s ex-girlfriend Ivana Lowell recalls that one of his offices had a hole in the wall, a reminder of that time he threw a telephone at Harvey. Yet the brothers remained united, feuding constantly but always locking arms when they needed to. As one former Miramax employee said, “Do Bob and Harvey go through periods of not talking? All the time. But at the end of the day they’re going to come back and fuck you instead of fucking each other.”

Bob needed Harvey to stay a success. It was Harvey who hopped the red-eye to rock around the clock on the white-whale yachts of Cannes, charming the buttoned-up bankers, Arab princes, eccentric directors, “living his life with the volume controls as up as you dare turn them,” as Anthony Minghella once told me. Quentin Tarantino would second this, telling me in 2005 that Harvey was “sooo much fun to hang out with.” Before the fall, that is.