After a disastrous experiment two years ago that saw them toying with their rock-solid formula and instead letting Tom Ford indulge his creepiest, Scarlett Johansson-in-need-of-diapering impulses, Vanity Fair is back to doing what it does best: glamming up a small army of up-and-coming starlets and splashing them across the gatefold cover of their annual Hollywood Issue. This year's list: Emily Blunt, Amy Adams, Jessica Biel, Anne Hathaway, Alice Braga, Ellen Page, Zoë Saldana, Elizabeth Banks, Ginnifer Goodwin, and America Ferrera. Oh, be nice: Jessica Biel has every right to be there. Are you forgetting The Illusionist? And, uh, I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry? [Slashfilm, Vanity Fair]

Yes, it was a helluva game. And yes, the Manning bros' simultaneous smiles were near-cinematic, as were Plaxico's tears. But unlike the rest of America, we opposed conformity and muted the game, not the commercials. Why? Brand spankin' new movie trailer debuts! And no offense to unlikely hero Eli, but even your wildcard win can't usurp any heat from the likes of Iron Man's Robert Downey Jr. clad in jet-powered metal or Adam Sandler's Israeli accent as a combat soldier-turned-hair-stylist in You Don't Mess With The Zohan. All six trailers shown (and then promptly dissected) after the jump.

Paris Hilton's last appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman was, in no uncertain terms, one of the greatest moments in U.S. television history, to go up there with the moon landing, the final episode of M*A*S*H, and the entire run of Joe Millionaire in the annals of essential road-markers tracking the rise, fall, and eventual obliteration of a once-promising colonial social experiment.

• Point Break and heartbreak [BoingBoing TV]

A warning to all athletes dating insanely hot famous women: you might want to think twice about allowing your ladyfriend anywhere near your player's box on Game Day. During yesterday's Super Bowl, Fox repeatedly cut to shots of New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady's supermodel girlfriend Gisele Bundchen enjoying the game from the comfort of a luxury suite. Unfortunately for Brady and the Patriots, all that bouncy clapping and ear-to-ear grinning (perfect Chicklet teeth notwithstanding) just might have done more harm than good.

· According to Nielsen's preliminary overnight ratings, a record number of Super Bowl viewers tuned in to watch the Giants shock the world™ by upsetting the heavily favored, once-unbeatable-seeming Patriots, with 97.5 million people tuning in (and 105.9 million at its peak) for the game. The telecast may also finish as the second-most-watched event of all time, behind MASH's 1983 finale. [THR]
· Rewarding him for his ability to profitably resurrect the Rambo franchise, Nu Image/Millenium Films signs new international political icon Sylvester Stallone to write and direct two more action flicks; blogging convention dictates that we must identify these next projects as long-awaited sequels to films from his back catalog, like Cobras and Over the Top 2: Back Over the Top. [THR]

Madonna is putting the final touches on her forthcoming album, due in stores April 29th, to be followed by a world tour in which the fauxtrage-exploiting pop icon will unveil her most blasphemous set-piece yet: A performance of "Papa Don't Preach" remixed to a dancehall beat, in which the singer will don a slutty, Gaultier-designed Mother Theresa habit, then proceed to be simulated-gang-banged by a group of background dancers outfitted as Jesus, Mohammed, Moses, and Martin Luther King. It promises to be nothing less than a show-stopper, but until then, we have her latest video, co-starring Timbaland and Justin Timberlake, to tide us over:

Potential voters in tomorrow's Super Tuesday primaries are receiving automated calls from actress Scarlett Johansson, one of Barack Obama's more glamorous supporters. (A $100 Amazon.com certificate to the first person who can provide us audio.) Update: And here it is. Thanks, Albert!

Sylvester Stallone's Rambo, the writer/director's powerful documentary on a mysterious, monosyllabic American boatman's struggle to unseat the bloodthirsty military regime subjugating Myanmar, has struck such a chord within the country that its ruling junta is trying to stop the cinematic call-to-action from reaching Yangon's black-market DVD stalls, where it could incite widespread rebellion by those inspired by Stallone's rousing catchphrases:

We fear that after Snoop's flawless performance as a warm and fuzzy "gangsta" on Larry King this past Friday, the ol' suspendered geezer/legend is gonna call one of his 89 doctors and request some of this "medical marijuana" Snoop waxes silkily about in this clip. In the final moments of the show, King, as usual, saves the only question we actually care about for last: Snoop, what's the deal with you and this 'pot' you continuously speak of? After a stoned-out-of-his-gourd grin, the father of three responds with, "I'm on medical marijuana as we speak." Righteous! We just hope that producers from the Martha Stewart show were watching. After all, can you imagine a more awesome hour of television than Martha and Snoop making and eating a whole plate of pot brownies?

Because we know that you've been plagued by disturbing nightmares that The Wolf Man might not begin production on schedule following the announcement that creative-difference-haver Mark Romanek had exited the film at the 11th hour: Universal's search for a director is over! Despite rumors that the studio had fallen crazy-in-hacky-love with a certain visionary, they've instead chosen Joe "Hidalgo/Jurassic Park III" Johnston to deliver their hairy baby on time, dashing all our hopes of a Ratnerian reimagining (i.e., anachronistic—but nonetheless thrilling—lycanthrope car chases) of the project. Relieved of this psychic burden, you may now return to a more restful sleep. [Var]

If one 30-second Super Bowl spot fetched $2.7 million, as we've been told approximately 2.7 million times going into this year's festivities, then our cursory calculations put the cost of this Bud Light/Semi-Pro crossover ad at somewhere around the $7.1 million mark.

In case you were too consumed with your Super Bowl preparations to scroll through the scores of "THE STRIKE IS OVER!!!" e-mails filling up your BlackBerry, various reports touting "progress" fueled by a breakthrough in Friday's informal deal-chat surfaced over the weekend, filling Hollywood with the kind of cautious optimism the beaten-down residents of a crippled company town haven't allowed themselves to feel since the AMPTP's Nick Counter stormed away from negotiations after claiming that someone on the WGA negotiating team had given him "the stink-eye" back in early December, ushering in weeks of unrelenting gloom.

As you and your loved one attempt to pry off the beer helmet that became glued to your head by a combination of sweat and Coors Light runoff, enjoy the weekend box office numbers:

Behold the best tech ad in Super Bowl history: Apple's "1984" ad, which cost $1.6 million to make and run, and only aired nationally once. The following nine ads, while perhaps not as iconic, are all fascinating in how they seek to make the mysteries of tech compelling to the masses.

· Sean Young: Drunk, and wanting Julian Schnabel to get on with it already. The Julie Chen version. The video. The rehab announcement.
· On the bed! On the floor! On a towel by the door! She's fucking Matt Damon!
· ET and The Insider compassionate Heath Ledger-next-to-some-drugs-video story kill. But do fellow stars deserve the credit?
· We got SAGgie Fever! Travolta's got Middle Earth Fever. Ryan Seacrest just has regular fever.
· What's Angelina hiding under that tent? Why's she just drinking water?? It's twins, silly! Yayyyyy!
· The Wolf Man loses a perfectionist, but does it gain a Ratner? Not necessarily.
· Another week of Britney insanity we can barely keep track of, so just click here.
· Tom Cruise and John Travolta nearly fall for the old Heath Ledger's Dad Needs a Plane Ticket to America swindle.
· Ryan Seacrest, sweaty teens, muscle suit, tennis ball cannon: Do the math.
· Stewie Griffin: Gay.
· Jessica Alba is damned if she's hot, damned if she's knocked up.
· Mr. Phil's image-rehab media tour.
· Celebrate Josh the only way Katherine Heigl knows how.
· Kirstie Alley is not amused, person making jokes about her Nicole Kidman's outfit at the back of Us Weekly!
· While you enjoy high blood alcohol levels and linebackers this weekend, your tweenage daughter will be enjoying Miley Cyrus in 3D.
· When 50 Cent Made Paris Cry: In words and pictures.

Fresh off an exhilarating birthday bonanza and an electrifying stop on The Late Show with David Letterman, Katherine Heigl brought her nicotine-stained 27 Dresses promotional tour to the Oprah show earlier this afternoon. Being the consummate pro that she is, she did NOT let the opportunity slip through her fingers to knock her new husband Josh "Call Me Joshua" Kelley down a few pegs.

· Wasn't it only yesterday that they announced Star Jones' show was getting dumped? These TruTV people work fast.
· Our wishlist for the guy to fill William Katt's tights in the Greatest American Hero movie, in order of desirability : John Krasinksi, Steve Zahn, Willie Aames, Justin Timberlake. (Please, Will Ferrell, let this one go.)
· This is what your condo will look like if you choose to pay a sure-to-be obscene sum to live in the new Grove in Glendale.
· Orderlies at UCLA psych ward are now apparently transcribing Britney Spears' calls for TMZ.
· We agree with Rambo Review Kid: Shitdicknipples kind of sucks.

Ready to experience 'The Ultimate'? The MTV Movie Blog reported earlier today that writer/director David Wain is contemplating putting together a musical adaptation of Wet Hot American Summer, the 2001 cult fave that is to comedy nerds what Strunk & White is to English majors. Even though we're almost 100% certain that Wain pulled a fast one on the cub reporter and has no serious intention to make this happen, the sheer possibility that it might one day happen is enough to make us pound a 2-liter of bug juice. Now pardon us while we go hump a refrigerator. [MTV Movie Blog via Lindsayism]

We've already admitted to you our growing fascination with thinly veiled child-sex-trafficking game show Make Me A Supermodel. (Small side note: Has the term "supermodel" lost all currency? Is it now the fashion world equivalent of the term "porn star," with any XXX-come-lately to successfully wrap a dp scene instantly elevating themselves to the level of a Courtney Cummz or Naomi St. Clair? But we digress.) Forced to up the naked ante from last week's naughty boudoir challenge, producers dispensed with all manner of propriety, and had the remaining contestants strip bare for a drawing class.