OK, maybe we're not responsible, but Defamer won't have Jack Valenti to kick around anymore. According to a breaking story in THR, the pirate-hunting, internet-hating MPAA chief has finally retired. As we'd recently heard, he'll be succeeded by former Clinton agriculture secretary Dan Glickman.

This NYT still photograph of Halle Berry humiliating herself by performing the "Wal-Mart cheer" with Susan Lucci and board-member David Glass, despite a tiny-to-nonexistent theatrical release, is still projected to out-earn Catwoman in its opening weekend.

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS), the organization of entertainment professionals and dance-number-inflicting sadists behind the yearly Oscar broadcast, have for the first time publicized their list of invitees to the organization. Academy President Frank Pierson thinks that the publication of the list honors the recipients of the invitations and reflects some sort of new, more-stringent standard for acceptance into their magic club, blah blah blah. We just can't wait until someone leaks us Sean Penn's urine-soaked doodle of an extended middle finger over the "No" box.

Official Olsen Twin website mary-kateandashley.com finally breaks its deafening, 'tween soul-crushing silence on Mary-Kate's trip to rehab.

As Michael Moore jogs a victory lap around the country, his web site has photos from fans who attended this weekend's crowded showings of Fahrenheit 9/11. Can you identify these packed LA-area theaters? Photo #1: "Hollywood." More after the jump.

An eagle-eyed reader ID's Disney CEO Michael Eisner at The Grove, observing a throng waiting to get into Fahrenheit 9/11. (For those of you just arriving from a two-month stay in a sensory deprivation tank, it's the movie he wouldn't let Disney-owned Miramax release.)

The editors of the NYT have been working on their memo-panache. If we weren't so lazy, we'd chart NYT morale over the last year by measure of the vim with which in-house memos are composed. Short of such a study, we'll declare that "perky is in!" on 43rd Street, judging by Jon Landman's announcement of new co-chief film critic Manolo, err, Manohla Dargis.

LA.com's Laurie Pike blogs about last night's LA Film Fest party for DIG!, the documentary about the rivalry between the Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Dandy Warhols. The showing was predictably littered with hipsters (but who did we expect to be there, the Octogenarian Blue Plate Special Club from Nibblers?), and Pike rips them a new set of holes for their ironic t-shirts:

Sony's marketing gurus and White Chicks' make-up artists must have collaborated to try and tap the ticket-buying power of the "female masking" demographic. If only Michael Moore had donned the Alice on Leno...

A reader attends a midnight showing of Fahrenheit 9/11 at the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood so that we can go straight to bed after the emotional exhaustion of Celebrity Poker Showdown. Drudge should be thrilled; Michael Moore's gotta look really fucking huge stretched across that enormous screen.

Do you ever find yourself wondering what Matt Drudge thinks of Michael Moore? Take a look at the pictures on the left (excusing our laughable Photoshop skills). The "Original" is the Michael Moore photo (saved directly from drudgereport.com) before it was "Drudged"—stretched out to an even more unflattering shot of the corpulent Fahrenheit 9/11 director. Then click on the image to see a screen capture of Drudge's presentation of the super-sized Michael Moore alongside a vertically-stretched shot from White Chicks that makes the Wayans brothers seem thinner. You make the call: Is he trying to pretty-up the cross-dressers and pork-up the liberal? Next to the "new" Moore, the white chicks almost look doable. Almost.

New Yorkish notices that in The Terminal, Steven Spielberg seems a tad more interested in advertising opportunities than in accuracy. Despite the apparent craving for verisimilitude that led Spielberg to build an enormous replica JFK terminal on a soundstage, with authentic grace notes like a working escalator and real departure signage reflecting actual JFK flight schedules, the director incorrectly shoehorns non-NYC chains Baja Fresh, Yoshinoya, and Panda Express into the food court. Why not just throw an In N Out in there too?

Apparently trying to halt the shrieking noise that pierces her skull whenever she's too far from her twin, Ashley Olsen has canceled a trip to Australia to promote their film New York Minute "to be with her family," i.e. rehabbing Mary-Kate. We don't know if MK is in one of those treatment centers that allows guests, but we suggest a full cavity search if the Fat Twin tries to visit; we don't want a well-meaning Ash ruining her sister's recovery by smuggling in any contraband Sno-balls.

Just when we thought we might finally be free of The Curious Case of Colin Farrell's Oversized Tool On The Cutting Room Floor, we're bombarded with new info. A spy with knowledge of such matters tells us that Farrell had "final cock image approval" for A Home At The End Of The World , and after seeing a cut of his moneymaker in a screening, flipped his little army helmet and demanded that alternate footage be used. We don't know whether or not this involved reshoots with a zoom lens, or why he allegedly threw the fit, but one thing is certain: In the last 24 hours, we've written more euphemisms for "penis" than a copywriter for gay porn video boxes. Also, stories about your favorite bad boy actor's equipment being cut for, um, length, may be greatly exaggerated.

An operative files this brief report from last night's Spider-Man 2 premiere at the Mann Village and Bruin theaters in Westwood. Disturbing: Was Val Kilmer trying to get into Aunt May's pants? Where is Uncle Ben's ghost when you need him?

It's becoming obvious that today's Defamer will be hijacked by the likes of Britney Spears, the Olsens, and Colin Farrell's Supposedly Enormous Johnson. There's little we can do but give Brit a shoulder to lean on, hold Mary-Kate's hair, and try not to get our eye poked out by Farrell's renegade member. Alas, now the spectre of controversy is dangling around Farrell, as a well-informed reader thinks there's something amiss with the Irishman's on-screen junk:

Looks like Fahrenheit 9/11 will open wide on Friday with an R rating. Michael Moore and his distributors lost their appeal to MPAA ratings board to release the film with a PG-13 so that more teens could see the film. After the hearing, MPAA head Jack Valenti was heard muttering under his breath, "Teenagers? They're just going to go home and throw one of those unprotected anal sex parties with the hip-hop, then steal the movie off the inter-thing."

The Fox marketing department, which has to receive a large share of the credit for DodgeBall's box office victory over The Terminal, is once again on the loose. They've even started advertising I, Robot on their employee's paycheck envelopes. An Employee of the Month blogger notes Fox's savvy grab for the coveted, previously underserved letter carrier demographic:

From Variety, on the manifold pleasures of White Chicks:

Actress Jeri Ryan, best known as Seven of Nine, the most favored masturbation target in the history of the Star Trek franchise, alleges in court papers (filed in 2000) that her ex-husband pressured her to go to sex clubs and perform sexual activities in front of other couples. Oh, and her ex-husband is Jack Ryan, the Republican senatorial candidate from Illinois. (We'll leave it up to sister blog Wonkette to detail the undoubtedly hilarious political implications). We just hope that they managed to keep the sex hijinks in da club and away from the hotel rooms at the Trekkie conventions. It's way too early in the morning for us to handle the image of a Republican, Jeri Ryan, a guy in a Klingon mask, and a midget dressed as a Tribble banging away in a Borgy at the Burbank Ramada Inn.