Remarkably, most of the men connected to the convicted sex offender have barely experienced any fallout. That says as much as the scandal itself

A couple of weeks ago, the annual DealBook Summit got under way in New York. It’s a series of public talks billed as conversations with “the world’s most consequential people”, and is part of that circuit of live events in which the worst people on Earth gather on stage to address the second-worst people on Earth, their paying audience. Hosted by Andrew Ross Sorkin, the conference was a characteristically starry affair, but in a lineup that included Charlie Kirk’s widow, Erika Kirk, the US treasury secretary, Scott Bessent, and “changemaker” Halle Berry, it was Ehud Barak, the former prime minister of Israel and a former associate of Jeffrey Epstein, who really caught the eye.

My first thought about Barak’s appearance was: Larry Summers must be spitting. Summers, the former president of Harvard and another Epstein associate, was very much not on stage at the DealBook Summit, nor is he anywhere else in polite society right now. One can only imagine how bitter he must be feeling about the variance in fortunes of the men – and occasional woman – with known connections to Epstein. Of this list, two are dead (Marvin Minsky and Jean-Luc Brunel), one is in jail (Ghislaine Maxwell) and one has lost his house, his title and his invitation to the family Christmas (Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor). But for the rest of the prominent associates, email correspondents, birthday-card signatories, grant recipients and dinner companions of the late convicted paedophile – all of whom insist that, while in Epstein’s orbit, they remained in total ignorance as to the man’s true nature – the cancellation fairy’s aim has been predictably inconsistent and wide.

Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist

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In an industry not exactly known for it, Reiner was an exceptionally nice guy. But he was too much of a showman to make a straight shocker. The result was rich, terrifying – yet cherished

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You can love a film without, apparently, ever having paid full attention to it. I realised this only recently when I came to understood something crucial about Misery, the 1990 psychological horror film adapted from the novel by Stephen King and directed by Rob Reiner. What are the chances, I used to think, that Paul Sheldon, the bestselling novelist kidnapped and tortured by unhinged superfan Annie Wilkes, came off the road right when she happened along? It didn’t occur to me that the reason she was there in the first place was because she was stalking him or even (a conclusion not supported by the text) that she caused the crash. You think and think about these films that you love – and they come up different every time.

Reiner’s main strength as a film-maker is what made news of his death particularly horrifying, which is to say the man’s warmth – a sense, widely felt by millions who knew him only through his movies, that at heart, and in an industry not exactly known for it, Reiner was an exceptionally nice guy. His movies were smart, sophisticated, knowing, but when I think about the hits he had across every genre, the defining characteristic for me is their absence of cynicism.