Today's NY Times' looks at the strategy that Warner Bros. executives are embracing going forward from the bomb-strewn summer (Superman Returns, Lady in the Water, The Ant Bully, and, of course, Poseidon) that's left the studio in sixth place at the box office this year: tucking their heads between their knees and hoping that one of their "smaller" movies (like, say, that little Scorsese flick) performs above expectations, buying them enough job security to make it to next year's guaranteed blockbuster, Harry Potter. In the story, shellshocked-but-resolute WB muckity-mucks Jeff Robinov and Alan Horn lament that people have harped on their higher-profile disasters, while ignoring all the money they've proudly lost on lower-budgeted projects:

By our count, the major Hollywood studios have released 107 films featuring computer-animated, talking animals since January of this year, a numbing procession of disappointing, nearly indistinguishable offerings like The Wild, The Ant Bully, Barnyard, A Prairie Home Companion, Over the Hedge, Akeelah and the Bee, and Garfield: Lasagna Inspector that's clogged the multiplex and mostly failed to capture the imaginations of children accustomed to being mindlessly entertained by wisecracking CGI critters. Today's NY Times takes a look at the animation glut currently reaching critical mass, which threatens to confuse—and worse, bore—their core audience, but which for the time being is still producing product that achieves its primary goal: giving grandparents a way to keep this generation of ADHD-addled kids quiet in between Ritalin doses:

• Jes s D az Jr. resigns as publisher of the Miami Herald and El Nuevo Herald as a result of that whole cash-for-propaganda thing. Hopefully the government will give him some nice parting gifts. [Miami Herald]
• Across the pond, the company responsible for the UK versions of Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping and Country Living decides to get heavy into the Web. Somewhere in England a blogger at a British media gossip site starts thinking about career opportunities. [Guardian]
• More people are actually interested in watching Charlie Gibson than Katie Couric. We can't quite figure that out. [WaPo]
• Enough with the goddamn CGI already. [NYT]

Rather than submit to a force-feeding of mindless he-witch fare or the Jackass Collective's latest foray into experimental reverse-peristalsis- and-blunt-force-genital-trauma cinema, an angry Illinois theater owner decided to issue the studios the ultimate symbolic "fuck you" (or at least the ultimate symbolic "fuck you" available to someone with just two movie screens): shutting down for two weeks to protest the "drivel" Hollywood is currently offering. Reports the LAT:

Industrious data-miner and Jane-blogger Lindsay Robertson imports a maneuver from the Los Angeles Times, checking out what the neighbors are renting from Netflix via their "local favorites" listings. Cruelly, Netflix doesn't do New York by ZIP code, denying us the chance to compare the Lower East Side's preference for slash porn to the Upper West's inclination for complete seasons of PBS programming. Nevertheless, we do get results by borough, giving us the following top-ten for Manhattan:

Joe Eszterhas—who at the peak of his powers in the 1990s single-handedly overturned the image of the meek Hollywood scribe by earning millions for his uncompromising tales of beaver-flashing, psychosexual intrigue—has finally addressed the film that many finger as his undoing. Showgirls was meant to be a titillating, sensational look at the cutthroat world of Las Vegas entertainment; instead, it ended up being one of the most unintentionally hilarious movies of all time, thanks in no small part to Eszterhas' powerful dramatic choices, such as the scene in which Nomi and Cristal discover they are united by their Doggy Chow-eating pasts. According to New York magazine, however, Eszterhas claims to have been in on the joke all along:

The Mother of All Trailers is like spending two and a half minutes inside a studio executive's wet dream, in which his subconscious mind delivers up a genre-crossing, absurdly star-studded cinematic product that no test audience, no matter how fickle, could possibly resist. Of course, the production costs would probably stretch into the ten figures, but that's a problem one can safely ignore while still in the throes of REM sleep, at least until a nocturnal climax following the trailer's final frame cruelly releases him into a waking nightmare of budget overruns.

We've finally figured out Manohla Dargis: She's running a post-modern contest! We're no strangers to prolixity ourselves, but if you can wend your way through the convoluted structure she erects in today's review of How to Eat Fried Worms, consider yourself granted an honorary M.F.A. in comparative literature.

As you've no doubt heard by now, Paramount Pictures has ended its 14-year relationship with Tom Cruise, deciding not to renew the studio's deal with his Cruise/Wagner Productions (yes, this is more the left-coast beat, but we'd hate for you to be out of the loop during the staff lunch at Cosi). Cruise's partner Paula Wagner naturally claims that they chose to leave the lot, but Paramount's grandaddy, Viacom chairman Sumner Redstone, suggests that Paramount's decision might've had something to do with Cruise's insistence on acting like a total spazcock:

Warner Bros. learned the hard way this summer that when audiences line up to see a movie called Superman Returns, what they expect to see is a super man returning to do super things, not a touchy-feely supermeditation on a single mom's efforts to balance work and family. Even WB studio head Alan Horn would later admit, "We should have had perhaps a little more action to satisfy the young male crowd." The Spider-Man franchise has had better success in that department, but the third installment is leaving nothing to chance: After piling on multiple love interests and villains, James Franco recently revealed to MTV News that director Sam Raimi is bringing back the cast for reshoots:

• From his damp prison cell, Michael Lohan sends Lloyd Grove an editorial cartoon depicting his relationship with daughter Lindsay Lohan. We think this guy's got a future with the New Yorker. [Lowdown]
• Oprah chooses 73 of the most camera-ready (but needy!) girls to attend a school she's built in South Africa. [BBC]
• There's no way in hell that Victoria Beckham has this much flesh on her ass. [Us Weekly]
• You know why Kate Moss never says anything? Because she's a complete idiot. The model was rumored to be marrying junkie rocker Pete Doherty in a small ceremony in Indonesia; Doherty was detained in London on drug charges, alas, so we'll have to wait to see how far Moss' stupidity can go. [Gatecrasher]
• For the next season of Survivor, contestants are rumored to be split up according to race. Like that's not going to cause some major issues on and off the island. [Page Six]
• Steven Soderbergh puts an end to his Ocean's franchise one film too late. [IMDb]
• Samantha Cole, the otherwise unremarkable "singer" who slept with philandering Peter Cook back in the 90s, keeps her name in Page Six by screaming at a model, who called Cole a whore and then dumped ice in her lap. For once, we really like models. [Page Six]

As with any self-respecting bad movie, there were no advance press screenings of Snakes on a Plane, so we've had to wait until today to read the reviews. Rotten Tomatoes currently gives it a respectable Tomatometer score of 65%—you wouldn't want any B-horror flick clocking any higher—with a predictable lack of consensus over whether it's so [pick one from column A: good/bad/overhyped] it's [bad/good/overrated]. Here's a round-up of what some of them are saying—and because we are dealing in the always confusing "qualities of badness," we'll also clearly denote whether the reviewer was trying to be positive or negative with their put-downs in each instance:

As is the case with more and more movies these days, Snakes on a Plane declined to hold advance screenings for critics. Not one to be dissuaded, Manohla Dargis took in the flick with the commoners and issued her review a shockingly short time after. Which is probably how she slipped this one past Sifton's standards police: "Naughty by nature or perhaps more by design, these snakes don't just dart out of toilets; they also slide up bare legs and under dresses, moving in and out of more bodily orifices than the adult-film star Ron Jeremy did in his prime."

Former Mayor Ed Koch, in his current role as movie critic, seems displeased with recent release Another Gay Movie:

• Everything I Know About Drugs I learned from Hollywood [LAist]

In a world where anyone with a blog can get a book deal, why should one of this decade's most tenuous trend pieces be optioned for film? The Observer is reporting that rights to "The Man Date," Jennifer 8. Lee's shocking expose on buddy nights are on the verge of being acquired by an independent filmmaker. God give us strength; we know how this one is going to turn out.

In the second installment on its series on Hollywood's desperate attempts to recapture the attention of teens who are abandoning the multiplex in favor of simultaneous sessions of text messaging, ringtone downloading, and snorting of crushed Ritalin, the LAT relates a moment of clarity achieved by David Gale of MTV Films while observing one of these beautiful, demographically desirable creatures in temporary captivity:

Let us make a profound observation: Citizens of other nations are different from those of us here in the States. They may in fact have a higher public tolerance for profanity spoken by both old and young. For example, consider this ad consisting of a gentle British granny and her grandkids re-enacting the "dick dick dick" diner conversation from Reservoir Dogs. Or the same kids dropping a barrage of f-bombs during another such scene. It's all in aid of a game based on the movie, so it's too bad the ads would never see airtime in America (the game has already been banned in Australia). At this point, we'd rather just see the entire movie re-enacted by this same British family.

This clip right here should be ample proof to any New Yorker that there really is no God. Thanks to Thighs Wide Shut via the Apiary for killing off what little remains of our optimistic nature. And as for you, remember longingly what life was like before you'd witnessed the opening credits, theme, and skatin' Steve Guttenberg from 1980's Can't Stop the Music. Good evening.

The rumors swirling around Comic-Con last week that Heath Ledger was cast as the Joker in The Dark Knight, the Batman Begins sequel, were confirmed today by THR. The choice is sure to send ripples of controversy throughout the highly factious fanboy community, who'll debate endlessly whether or not the role should have been awarded to an actor most famous for starring in Brokeback Mountain. Their concern wouldn't be that he'd make the supervillain too effete, mind you, but rather that the guy who played Ennis del Mar wasn't capable of going nearly gay enough with the role: Requiring a face full of makeup, a Manic Panic Green Envy dye-job, and the need to punctuate every statement with a round of ear-piercing shriek-laughter, the Joker is one part that requires an actor to really embrace his inner drag queen.