Watch as we take the hands of this week's sponsors and attempt to lead them in a sensual tango, which an obnoxious, implacable British judge will deem "about as hot as a slow-dance with my incontinent grandmother." If you'd like to advertise on Defamer and have us stomp all over your delicate feet, see this page.
SAG looks to increase dues for the first time in seven years, a move that could put an unwelcome financial burden on your favorite bartender, valet parking attendant, or Starbucks barista in between slow-arriving residual checks. [Variety]
· On fledgling network The CW's premiere night, America's Next Top Model carries them to a win in the only demographic they truly care about, 18-34 year-olds, as the kids obviously put in the effort to figure out which channel is the new home of Tyra Banks' trademark sassiness. (Disclosure: We still have no idea what channel The CW landed on here in L.A. We suppose we'll figure it out eventually.) [THR]
· Adorably quirky superproducer Brian Grazer's Imagine TV is hooking up with the FBI to develop a drama about its role in the post-9/11 government. In the meantime, The Graze and his partners are hoping that new CBS series Shark will be a hit and make them incrementally richer. [Variety]
Justin Long will join Bruce Willis in the cast of the fourth Die Hard flick, Live Free or Die Hard, playing an obnoxious Mac enthusiast who scoffs at Willis' every frustrated attempt to download pictures from his digital camera onto his PC. [THR]
Thursday night ABC newcomer Grey's Anatomy defeats CBS timeslot stalwart CSI in both overall and key demographic viewership, leaving Les Moonves no choice but to promise his network affiliates that he plans on having the entire Grey's cast murdered by the end of the month. [Variety]
We're slowly coming to the sad realization that we may have to finally abandon our irrational hope that Paul Haggis' double Oscar win would somehow result in an unprecedented blackballing from the entertainment industry, as the densely pawed writer/director continues to pile up gigs at a dismaying pace. Today's Variety reports that Haggis has decided on his next directing job:
Sure, the premiere served up all the old school Hollywood glamour we've come to expect from the bow of a Paramount Pictures production. But not even Steve-O, Bam, and Wee Man overpowering and then relieving their bowels upon Billy Bush before entering the Chinese Theater could have turned Jackass Number Two into a critical success: The movie would have to earn that on its own. The reviews are in, however, and based on a random sampling of the nation's film critics, what it lacked in narrative and character development, it made up for in its visceral, puke-inducing formal elements. A round-up:
Because we realize that you probably need some help coming down from the unparalleled rush resulting from looking at an image of Steve-O's penis finally being put to a biologically sound purpose, we're happy to pass along this photo from the Blooming Ideas blog, depicting the stash that Louisiana cops confiscated from country legend Willie Nelson earlier this week, which included a pound and a half of pot and three ounces of psilocibin mushrooms. Unfortunately, no crack was found at the scene, demonstrating once again that even the most dedicated of famous, recreational drug users have a lot to learn from television showrunners.
At last night's premiere at the Chinese Theater, Jackass Number Two star Steve-O, subtle master of physical comedy, sensed that having a baby alligator chew his scrotum or allowing one of his co-stars to attack his genitals with a jackhammer would be too showy a display of the playful irreverence that is the troupe's trademark, even on such a special occasion. Instead, he opted for the simple, elegant act of urinating on the red carpet, much to the delight of the throng of fans, wire service photographers, and tourists transfixed by every drop of his golden stream.
· There are many good reasons to watch the above video, but the best of them is that the Olsen Twins are even creepier when rendered as puppets.
A previous professional experience with Wentworth Miller leaves blogger Paul Davidson completely unable to believe the guy could orchestrate a prison break.
Director Sydney Pollack offers our pal Andrew Krucoff the deep cultural insight that L.A. traffic sucks.
Jared Leto thinks blogs are a fad on the level of parachute pants. We always suspected that Jordan Catalano would grow up to be a trenchant media critic.
Superproducer Brian Grazer: Fan of avant garde art or secret brassiere fetishist? Developing...
· Please, Lord, never again make us contemplate the following four words: Rosie O'Donnell sex scene.
Just in time for tonight's series premiere of Shark, CBS's new lawyer drama starring James Woods as a "charismatic, supremely self-confident defense attorney who, after a shocking outcome in one of his cases and a personal epiphany, brings his cutthroat tactics to the prosecutor's office," THR, ESQ invites an actual veteran of the L.A. district attorney's office to review how faithfully the show depicts the practice of the law:
A recent PrivacyWatch sighting of Erik Estrada, whom we recall fondly from our youths as the shirtless hunk pointing at us seductively every time we opened our locker door, placed the former CHiPs star at a Firestone dealership in the Valley, where he bargained over the price of a set of tires for his son. A lively comments exchange followed, which included some highly contestable ratings data relating to Estrada's early, Spanish-challenged work on the Telenovela circuit. Setting the record straight on all counts today is none other than Nanette Estrada—"aka Ponch's wife," as she helpfully appends her signature line—who responds to each and every claim with, quite frankly, a far greater good-natured spirit than befits a hearsay blog item about how her husband's pinchpenny tendencies could potentially result in a teenager-stranding blowout on the 405:
It is our incredible pleasure to inform you on behalf of our merchandising-obsessed management that the Gawker Shop (visit it here online, or our other, less convenient location, the trunk of a car stalled near the valet stand at Hyde) has finally—finally!—restocked its supply of two of its billion-selling t-shirts models, the It's Not Whoring If You Do It For Free (pictured—and isn't that so, so true?), and the Quietly Judging You. But there's even better news: the shirts are now available in larger sizes, an attempt to better accommodate your recent pectoral or breast augmentation surgeries. As always, these shirts are backed by the Gawker Shop Guarantee: If you don't achieve international superstardom within fifteen years of your purchase, our boss will personally refund your money.* Consume!
· AFI's Directors Screenings is showing American Hardcore at the ArcLight tonight, a doc about the early 80s hardcore punk scene. After the show, director/producer Paul Rachman, writer/producer Steven Blush, Keith Morris of the Circle Jerks, and Jack Grisham of TSOL will be on hand to answer your questions. Q&A's are totally punk, don't let anyone tell you differently.
· Music round-up: Andrew Bird at the Henry Fonda; Natalie Walker at Temple Bar; The Lawrence Arms at the Troubadour; Envelopes at Spaceland.
· Screenwriter Joe Eszterhas signs his new book The Devil's Guide to Hollywood, in which he makes sensational claims about Sharon Stone's sexual prowess, at Book Soup. We urge you not to bring up this painful episode from his past at this event—he'll mention it on his own if he's ready to talk about it without a gossip reporter around.
While we found Defamer doppleganger Defaker, NBC's attempt to virally promote Studio 60 through a blog that seems to report gossip about the show's fictional universe in the form of interminably long episode summaries, an uncomfortably accurate commentary on our own half-assed efforts in the medium, we did unexpectedly discover something on the site to occupy our time: the open comments section of their inaugural post, a weird place where messages indulging the blog's premise (seemingly both from NBC staffers and people willing to play along with the joke), reviews of the show's pilot episode, opinions on the site's execution of its viral vision (verdict: try harder if you're going to bother), and general ragging on Amanda Peet's acting ability uncomfortably coexist. Here's a round-up of our favorite examples from the past couple of days:
PrivacyWatch celebrity sightings are submitted by our readers, and are now posted several times a week—so start sending them in more often. Send yours to tips[AT]defamer.com (please put "sighting" or "PrivacyWatch" in the subject line) and let the world hear all about your spotting of a rare and elusive yellow-headed Van Der Beek.
Inspired by the guy who executed a chain of trades that turned a single, red paper clip into a house, blogger Matthew Tobey has a grand plan for his used, 20GB iPod Photo. Figuring that if a half-cent paper clip could fetch a Saskatchewan home worth about $119,000, his $150 iPod should net an eventual value of over $3 billion, leaving him to decide on an appropriately pricey final target for his serial swaps:
A reader from San Francisco sends in a report from a screening of Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, wherein hundreds of area MySpace groupies were given the thrill of a lifetime when their dog-shooting hero showed up to lead them in a round of anti-Semitic drinking songs. But in a snafu remniscent of the recent disaster at the movie's world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, a glitch brought the side-splitting festivites to an abrupt halt:
Had she gone to college, you just know that Angelina Jolie would have been the girl conspicuously toting around her copy of Atlas Shrugged to parties just so she could go on and on about how much Ayn Rand changed her life. Now she gets her chance to live that experience on the set of a movie adaptation of the book. Grips, stay away from her at the craft services table. [Variety]
Entourage gets an official fourth-season pick-up with a 12-episode order from HBO. Spoiler alerts: Johnny Drama will seem a little gay, Turtle will spend most of the season high, and Ari will continue to be the only character really worth watching. [THR]
At yesterday's 900-member WGA unity rally, president Patric Verrone declared that "every piece of media with a moving image on the screen or a recorded human voice must have a writer. And every writer must have a WGA contract," a boldly inclusive statement probably not meant to cover people who record cameraphone videos of their drunk friends singing karaoke and post them to YouTube. [Variety]
Mel Brooks tries to prove there's no movie on his resume he's unwilling to cannibalize for a different medium, teaming with G4 for an animated series based on Spaceballs. [THR]
ABC's "Feel Thursday" campaign to publicize Grey's Anatomy's schedule shift was carefully engineered to finally drive all straight males from the show's viewership. The network anxiously awaits tomorrow morning's demographic ratings breakdowns, which should reveal how well the marketing strategy worked. [Variety]
With a new book to promote, The Devil's Guide to Hollywood, screenwriter Joe Eszterhas has found himself in the position of being forced to finally come face-to-face with Showgirls, which unfolded not unlike the awkward scenario of a father becoming reaquainted with the inbred, pole-dancing product of a regrettable one-night-stand from the early 1990s. After a screening of the film (which we recently noted is being adapted into a stage musical), Eszterhas was willing to concede that perhaps some of the thunderous-laughter-inducing lines weren't entirely intentional, and offered some forthright, firsthand experience regarding the disillusionment that can so often follow the bedding of your film's glamorous, sex-vixen star:
While some will see Cameron Diaz's accusation that a renegade photographer tried to mow down the actress and boyfriend Justin Timberlake as evidence that the paparazzi have added attempted vehicular manslaughter to their celebrity-menacing repertoire, we prefer to think of the incident as an unexpected opportunity for freelance photographers to add a new category of candid shot to their famous-people-hiding-under-jackets-while-flipping-the-bird standards: The Hit and Run. Tabloids and glossies alike are sure to pay unprecedented sums for images of celebrities scattering from the path of a black SUV traveling at high speed, or for true money-shots of less-agile actors splayed on the hood of the photographer's vehicle, their faces uncomfortably pressed against the windshield glass and captured from the driver's POV. It's an idea hinted at by last year's paparazzi-induced Lindsay Lohan fender-bender, but ready to be taken to the next level with celebrities careless enough to leave the safety of their German-engineered cocoons.
In a quote that will be instantly stripped of context and presented as proof that Paris Hilton is aware that she's exactly as intelligent as we assume one who is singlehandedly responsible for the term "celebutard" entering the pop culture vernacular might be, Page Six reports Hilton played the dumb card while being questioned in connection with the Joe Francis Kidnapping And Dildo-Menacing Trial of the Century:
