It should be well past time that Hollywood can close the door on Harvey Weinstein, write him out of history and never evoke his name again. Given that we’re in no danger of him being handed the reins of a studio again — he's actually behind bars — and given that the revelations about his behavior kicked off the biggest wave of recrimination and accountability for executive behavior in Hollywood, we might be forgiven for thinking that we've exorcised this demon and don't have to be subject to one more account of his crimes.

To paraphrase, we may be through with Harvey, but Harvey's not through with us. I've been reading Ken Auletta's new book on Weinstein — the more complete account yet of his career and misdeeds. It's no barrel of laughs to revisit this story that is so gruesome and depressing on so many levels.

But it's a story that still resonates and disturbs as more than a yucky glad-we-got-rid-of-that-guy artifact. While Hollywood has now been introduced to the notion that poohbahs can be held accountable for their behavior, and for the first time in Hollywood history, some in fact have been called to account in more than symbolic ways, in so many other ways, the elements that gave us Harvey are alive and well; not just the serial sexual predator but the monster who terrorized, too.