As a vigilant observer of Vanity Fair covers, we report with more than a smidgeon of shadenfreude that E. Graydon Carter has indeed fucked up royally (The Corsair sips a Olivier Leflaive Puligny and chuckles softly). Instead of going with the Borat cover (Was it because our favorite Kazakh is dusky-complected?), Graydon nixed it for yet another Brad Pitt photo. Smooth move, Graydo -- Pitt is an old friend of Cohen-Baron. There was no question that Pitt, a loyalist, would cause some sort of media stink on behalf of his boy.
Unfortunately, the Borat movie is also a smash, slaying critics and winning the weekend boxoffice. Says RadarOnline:
"When we reported in September that Sacha Baron Cohen's confused Kazakh was on deck for the cover of Vanity Fair, we underestimated the fickleness of editor in chief Graydon Carter. Multiple inside sources have confirmed to Radar that Cohen was a serious enough candidate for the November cover that his publicist, Matt Labov, believed it to be a done deal.
"But that was apparently before a photo of a dripping-wet Brad Pitt in his underwear caught Carter's eye. When it did, he moved up December coverboy George Clooney to November, relegating Cohen to a write-around profile and Q&A (as Borat) in the December issue. Of course, the cover shot of Pitt, taken by photographer Robert Wilson, is purportedly unauthorized and may lead to a lawsuit."
The gloriously amoral Judith Regan, who would publishthe memoirs of Satan Itself if it would move units, is back. And it being a ReganBook, we can expect lots of pictures and cartoons -- for the less literate set -- and a ghostwrite by execrable Neil Strauss. The Corsair's friend in blog Kiana Moore of WOW send us this update on JudyJudyJudy posted by Randy Barbato:
"When asked who she would most like to 'get to know,' Judith Regan said: 'Osama Bin Laden... I want to get the story... have a heart-to-heart.... That story has everything.' Makes sense to me, they deserve each other."
What do Tom Cruise and Charlie Chaplin have in common? Well, for one, both are acknowledged masters of slapstick -- Cruise's talents being unintentional, and on Oprah's couch (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment). Second, they both like their women looking on the youngish side. And now the glamorous, prestigious United Artists.
Much ado has been made of late about the "new studio model," where, as traditional studios gamble on massive tentpole pictures -- think: "Pirates of the Carribean" -- there is a void for mid-size, indie-ish pictures. Enter: the moneymen t hedge funds as sources of financing. The prestigious UA, which oneophile Francis Ford Coppola once pined for, is now Tom Cruise occupied territiory. From the Old Gray Lady:
"Tom Cruise has finally found a home. Mr. Cruise and his producing partner, Paula Wagner, have become partners in United Artists, the storied production company started by Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford.
"Ms. Wagner will be named chief executive of United Artists and Mr. Cruise will be a producer associated with the studio. The two will have authority to produce about four movies a year. The movies will be distributed by MGM, whose chairman and chief executive, Harry Sloan, announced the changes today.
"Mr. Sloan and his team have been working to revive MGM, which owns the United Artists division, as a full-blown movie and television distribution company.
"The arrangement represents a is a welcome turn for Mr. Cruise, whose producing deal at Paramount Pictures was severed this summer after executives complained it was too costly. Last year, several producers in Hollywood had sought to buy United Artists but were unsuccessful. The deal with Mr. Cruise and Ms. Wagner offers the prospect of future expansion at the unit."
Actually, we are not so surprised that Vogue Online is as bitchy behind the scenes as Vogue glossy print magazine. It is difficult to be cheery on a couple hundred calories a day regardless (Averted Gaze). Conde Nastiness and all that (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment) What we would like to know, however, is if -- as a little birdy told us -- they *allegedly* make you sit on a thin chair during the interview process, and flunk you if your thighs exceed the breadth of the chair. Is that just a media urban rumor. According to Paidcontent:
"Vogue’s status as a fashion industry bible hasn’t translated into a strong online presence and that’s a problem for publisher Conde Nast, according to a report in Crain’s NY.
"The magazine’s site doesn’t meet the 340,000 unique visitor threshold of Nielsen/NetRatings. The business paper says it isn’t the fault of Vogue’s legendary editor Ana Wintour or publisher Tom Florio. Some executives, though, are blaming the set up of CondeNet, the centralized business that runs the magazine’s websites, the story says. “The arrangement is causing friction in some quarters of the tony publishing empire...Magazine executives, who would speak only if granted anonymity, say that with the center of gravity shifting toward the Internet, they no longer want their online identities controlled by a separate division that not only administers the sites but collects the ad revenue, too...Insiders aren’t the only ones complaining. Media buyers eager to reach new audiences also want to see the digital and print sides unite.”
There is a code among actors in Hollywood. However exciting the prospects of a love scene, with, say, Angelina Jolie or George Clooney, one generally says the standard "what's exciting about making out under hot lights and a dozen crew members watching" line. You know and The Corsair knows that it is a crock of shit, but we all keep silent and let them make their magic. Occasionally a macho lowlife like Peter Berg will go on "Dinner for Five" and brag about an infamous sex scene. But egnerally actors keep the Omerta pure. Until John Leguizamo, who scribbles, in his appropriately titled magnum opus "Pimps, Playa Hatas and All the Rest of My hollywood Friends":
"(Y)ou do get turned on sometimes. I've gotten wood ... For me, it's most arousing when ... it's just you and the girl and a tiny essential crew. The it's more relaxed and intimate, and you can find yourself actually getting into the sex. And of course if you're an actor you ask for a lot of takes. Directors tend to be good about that. They want you to enjoy it.
"'How did you feel about take fifty-six, John?'
"'I dunno. I think I can do better. I don't feel like I really nailed her. It.'"
Remember the post-Cold War story about how Easy E attended a Republican White House dinner under George Herbert Walker Bush? We vaguely recall that after some donation the gangsta rapper got an invite. And then the story evaporated. Jerry Heller, popularizer of West Coast hip-hop, fleshes out the details in his latest book, "Ruthless":
"Because (Easy E) contributed his time and money to a South Central charity event, his name got cherry picked by the eternally vigilant fundraising apparatus of the Republican Party. A computer has no judgement. It doesn't care if you are a respected dope dealer, a violent agitator for minority rights, or one of the vocalists on a song called "Fuck Ta Police." Or all three.
"The Republicans understand money and the computer understands the slow grind of numbers. A huge Cray mainframe in Silver Springs, Maryland, picked up the scent of a twenty five thousand dollar contribution made to one (Easy E) of Westlake, California. That scent excited GOP cash glands. The Cray spit out the form letter invitation to said (Easy E) and we were off to have lunch with (President Bush, 41).
"...As it turned out, we had a pretty okay time. We ate poached salmon and roast beef. (Easy E) sat next to a woman from Dallas, who I would bet had never mixed socially with a person of color before in her long and well-heeled life. I expected her to start talking about 'the problem of the Negro.' I think she was actually afraid to look at the short African-American next to her, so she didn't notice that (easy E's) eyes looked like a couple of all-black marbes.
"Nobody's been that stoned in the White House since Gerald Ford's kid Jack smoked dope on the White House roof. And Easy had better weed that Jack Ford ever did."
Nobody? We've always entertained the notion that "hemp advocate" Ben Franklin was not averse to breeaking out a fatty after the Hasty Pudding and Madeira were served during the Jefferson Administration.
Granted, The Omen, The Excorcist, Suspiria and Halloween are, in that order, the scariest films ever. But how about "Lemora: A Child's Tale of the Supernatural." It used to come on the UPN network years ago on Halloween. Since then it has sort of disappeared, but which carried about it that haunted air of the early 70s (Vietnam, Watergate, Excorcist).
We didn't expect the despicable, Robert Novak, to be warm and, like, human. No, we like our Novak served cold. When Novak distorts his face, spittles up and wags his finger we half expect purple bolts of Sith lightning to strike the hapless, though we cannot fail to note, delicious Michelle Cottle (The Corsair sips a glass of Pernod). But no: Novak is more Dickensian --the three piece suits, the vapid insistence on a Capital gains tax cut -- than Lucasfilm. even this attack on Michael J. Fox went beyond his Luciferian limits. On Bloomberg's Political Capital, Novak rants:
"Michael J Fox admitted to (sometimes) not taking his medicine ... when (Fox) gets into the political arena, he's fare game."
Even the normally staid Margaret Carlson blanched, throwing an acid "shame on you" to Novak, who, at last sighting, was descending back into the bowels of Hell to do Satan's fetid handicraft.
David Hasselhoff .... A young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the innocent, the helpless, the powerless, in a world of criminals who operate above the law. (image via wireimage)
Quincy "Q" Jones reluctantly concedes that his pimpiness pales in comparison to the priapic Warren Beatty; but he's drinking milk. (image via wireimage)
