If that were Spears's only legal problems—Louis Vuitton has just won a case against Sony BMG and MTV Online in Paris civil court, ordering them to "stop broadcasting or marketing the video for 'Do Something' in any form and fined them 80,000 euros ($117,000) apiece" for using the luxury goods manufacturer's "Cherry Blossoms" signature pattern on the dashboard of the pink Hummer she drives through the clouds in the video from a single off her 2004 greatest hits compilation. Some "Do Something" Video Fun Facts: It was the singer's directorial debut, credited under the pseudonym "Mona Lisa," and #6 on AOL's The Worst Music Videos Ever!, a list obviously compiled long before "Gimme More"'s video envisioned the singer's lackadaisical run-in with a pole coated in a generous amount of Turtle Wax-brand Stripper Butter.

At a special screening of his period serial killer opus Zodiac in New York last night, director David Fincher, who earlier this year was accused by a psychologically fragile collaborator of being a sadistic taskmaster who wields the weapon of seemingly endless takes like a dominatrix uses a leather paddle on the exposed hindquarters of her favorite, ball-gagged submissive, shared his technique for breaking down actors who aren't sufficiently serious about their craft. Reports the Reeler:

An Olsen twin is down! An Olsen is down! Thankfully, according to the rep for the Mary-Kate half (the one on Weeds, as you surely recall) of Hollywood's richest set of formerly conjoined twins, the just-announced hospitalization was for a "kidney infection," an explanation far less suspicious than the "exhaustion" and "dehydration" excuses forever tainted by flacks for the actress's more-troubled, serially rehabbing peers. [People]

As Hollywood prepares to bury those still-nagging feelings of labor-strife-related dread in turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes, here's the morning's round-up of strike news:

In a rare televised coming together of three of the most powerful stars on the planet, Tom Hanks and a back-from-the-child-rearing-abyss Julia Roberts appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show today to promote Charlie Wilson's War, the first of what is sure to be many vigorous lap dances performed by the pair for an always A-list-horny Oscar.

If you came to Californication without knowing much about the Showtime series, you'd be forgiven if you'd have expected the familiar Red Hot Chili Peppers song "Californication" to play under the show's titles; failing that, you'd think at least some reference to the band's hit 1999 album of the same name might figure into the action or back story. As it turns out, however, no permission from the band was secured by the network or the show's creators, who merely saw in the lexical hybrid a catchy, succinct term covering the shows primary themes of fucking and life in Southern California.

In his latest Huffington Post dispatch, 30 Rock star Alec Baldwin, despite trying to keep things light by first calling attention to something that gives him joy—Ryan Gosling's great work in Lars and the Real Girl— finally succumbs to despair: "I miss my make-up artist, Stacey Panepinto. I miss my hairstylist, Richard Esposito. I miss all of the 30 ROCK cast and crew, who I don't see anymore because of this motherfucking, motherfucking, motherfucking strike." While he's understandably anguished by the unpleasant consequences of the strike, we're sure that the consummate artist will find a way to channel those feelings into tonight's live performance of his sitcom, delivering an especially poignant performance of the bravura moment that's sure to bring him an Emmy, one so impassioned that those in attendance will swear he momentarily transformed into Jimmie Walker. [HuffPo]

But before any of O'Donnell's many detractors announce their deep satisfaction at watching the feathered national symbol taking several hungry chunks out of the outspoken Iraq War critic's face, we'd first like to remind them that no one got off more from the sequence than Rosie herself, for whom the near-fatal eagle-pecking was just the manifestation of a lifelong fantasy that began the time a nine-year-old Rosie spent the night trapped beneath the covers with a family of frantic pigeons, armed only with their tiny beaks and a desperate will to survive.

· Music round-up: Radio Parade at the Troubadour; Softlightes at Spaceland (free!); Daughtry (or is it DAUGHTRY?) performs at the Orpheum.
· The Egyptian Theatre hosts a sneak preview of The Mist (not to be confused with 1980 John Carpenter classic The Fog), the latest Stephen King short story to be stretched into a big screen adaptation. Cast and crew will be on hand to answer all of your questions about the newly resurgent low-visibility horror genre.
· White Oleander author Janet Fitch reads from her second novel, Paint it Black, at Vroman's.

Last night's episode of VH1's America's Next Most Smartest Model—easily the most damning basic cable exposé on the insufficient intellects of the mannequin class since E!'s 101 Best 'I Can't Believe That Pretty Dummy Just Said That Stupid Thing!' Fashion Show Moments—asked the age-old question: how shitfaced is too shitfaced to network in a bar stocked with people from the industry who can potentially help one achieve his or her dreams of stardom?

Adieu to Dick "Please Don't Squeeze the Charmin" Wilson, dead at age 91. Writes the AP: "Wilson made more than 500 commercials as Mr. George Whipple, a man consumed with keeping bubbly housewives from fondling toilet paper. The punch line of most spots was that Whipple himself was a closeted Charmin-squeezer." Is it just us, or does that make the campaign sound like a series of subversive, 30-second porns secretly geared towards scat-fetishists? [AP]

Every once in a while, a Communications Ensign from the bridge of the Gawker Media mothership requests that we briefly pause to explain some new and exciting features they've added to this Web Log for your enjoyment, and because we've learned that disobedience of these directives invariably leads to the sting of the lash or the burn of the cupful of acid tossed faceward, we are more than happy to comply. Starting immediately, there are some new whizbang-y doodads available that will help our cherished, tight-knit community of commenters (more on how to become a commenter here) further enmesh themselves in each other's online lives by tracking the activity of their "friends" and "followers." Sound neat-o? It is! Let's learn more:

In the outside chance there still exists a pocket of backwoods-dwelling clodhoppers who have yet to learn of Jessica Seinfeld's bestselling cookbook Deceptively Delicious, the wife of Bee Movie mogul Jerry Seinfeld appeared on The View today to further outline her methods of veggie-disguising culinary tricksiness.

· Joining Ron Howard's Angels & Demons in writers-strike-induced production limbo is Olvier Stone's Pinkville, a move that temporarily puts Bruce Willis and Woody Harrelson out of work. [Variety]
· ...but luckily for Willis, a paycheck for director Jonathan Mostow sci-fi thriller The Surrogates was just waiting to be cashed. [Variety]
· The Academy releases the shortlist of its 15 documentary feature Oscar contenders, a group that includes Michael Moore's Sicko, but which tragically overlooks the hilarious King of Kong, a look at the dark, mulleted, hot-sauce-hawking underbelly of competitive Donkey Kong playing. [THR]

The Tudors' star Jonathan Rhys Meyers, whose rider calls for the accompaniment of an AA sponsor, has apparently tumbled off the wagon, having been charged yesterday with "public drunkenness and breach of the peace" at the Dublin Airport. In the boozy, line-blurring haze of the moment, the actor swore he'd have "every present officer's head lopped off in the public square just as soon as I'm done invading Spain!" [AP]

Despite having earned untold millions from his incredibly successful superproducing career, won an Oscar for his shepherding of a buddy comedy (with heart!) about a math-loving schizophrenic and his favorite imaginary friend, and having recently dragged a troubled, $100 million passion project out of development hell and into a lucrative box office run all by himself, Imagine's Brian Grazer is still tormented by feelings of Hollywood inadequacy. In today's NY Times, Grazer, his signature hair-spikes seemingly wilting with each anguished word, laments that for all of his show business accomplishments, his name is still relatively unknown by the middle-American moviegoers to whom he delivers Russell Crowe-starring cinematic delights every couple of years:

From the moment an all-celebrity version of Donald Trump's ongoing, competitive reality TV work-placement extravaganza The Apprentice was announced, the world eagerly awaited word on which A-list talent the Manhattan land baron would select to fill the seats in his Board Room of the Damned. After winnowing down a list of 125 celebrity applicants ("They were all begging to be on the show..."), 14 were chosen:

Former Sexiest Man Alive sash-wearer Jude Law, whose 2004 recognition as the most desirable pretty-boy in all of Hollywoodland capped a year of overexposure from which the too-hard-working thespian never fully recovered, congratulates current honoree Matt Damon on the accomplishment: "'Keep up the good work, Matt,' Law said of his co-star in The Talented Mr. Ripley, at Sunday night's London premiere of his new film Sleuth, before continuing in a rueful tone, "and no matter how badly your horny nanny begs for it—and she will, I assure you—please, don't give in to temptation. Porking the help just isn't worth it. Trust me." [People]

With preview scorecards rating his upcoming turn as a Hitler-hunting WWII war hero as "simply darling," and "eye-patch adorable! When and where can I get my kids a plush Col. Claus von Stauffenberg doll?" Tom Cruise has decided to take another drastic turn with his scrupulously managed big screen persona. A photo snapped on the set of Ben Stiller's superstar-cameo-packed Tropic Thunder reveals the actor has finally rid himself of his distracting Nazi bangs and SS uniform, replaced by a bald wig, prosthetic chest-fur collar, and a strap-on belly. (It bears mentioning that the latter is a mere enhancement, as his own doughy physique suggests one too many trips to Valkyrie's sauerbraten-and-strüdel-heavy cräft services table).