After a brief period of light (optimism?), darkness falls upon the Earth...

NOT SO SLEEPY, NOT SO HOLLOW

I caught a preview screening of the new Tim Burton movie, Sleepy Hollow, this past week and totally expected a watered-down, commercialized version of the Ichabod Crane anti-fairy tale. After all, the last Tim Burton movie was Mars Attacks, a big-budget indie movie that flopped miserably. What's the chance of studios giving him his way again? There's good news and there's bad news. The good news is that Sleepy Hollow isn't watered down, predictable or commercial at all. Reminiscent of Beetlejuice and Edward Scissorhands, this is textbook Burton--shadowy visuals, injections of visceral comedy, relentless darkness and a Lisa Marie cameo (she swirls in the wind!). The bad news is that it isn't the Gothic masterpiece that we might have expected. But it'll still be a gargantuan hit. Look for our special Sleepy Hollow feature next week with in-depth coverage and an interview with one of the film's stars.

I WILL BE ANAKIN SKYWALKER!

Well, not really. It seems that last week a certain highly top-secret memo that Lucasfilm circulated to top agents around the nation "accidentally" leaked to the press. And what revelations did this one sheet of paper hold for the rest of the cosmos? Hold your breath blonde-haired boys--they're looking for the next Anakin Skywalker to star in Episode II (due to start filming next summer) and become one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. The memo specified that Lucasfilm will cast a 19-year-old in the world's most coveted role--someone who is "self-determined, intelligent and forthright." Oh, and all for all of you non-Aryans, don't bother--the candidate must resemble Jake Lloyd. So there goes the talk of Leonardo DiCaprio, Ryan Phillipe and Joshua Jackson (too old) and pretty much every other established star in the universe (not intelligent).

So there leaves only one person. Me! Bah. It seems that a corollary to the memo says that the candidate must have an agent as well as previous acting experience. Well, I still have my hopes up: Remember little Anakin's Indian friend in The Phantom Menace? He's gotta grow up sometime.

NO MORE FRIENDS FOR DINNER?

Everyone was itching to get their hands on Hannibal, Thomas Harris' sequel to the Silence of the Lambs, before it actually hit bookstores. Publishers wanted to see how much they should demand for the movie rights. Agents wanted to see whether the sequel might have room for new characters. Directors wanted their name attached to the project, producers wanted to finance it, etc., etc. But after a prolonged, tortuous attempt to translate Hannibal into a viable screenplay, Jodie Foster has officially refused to reprise her role as Clarice Starling. Anthony Hopkins, meanwhile, is still all for one more meal of fava beans and chianti.

But Foster's got it right on this one--and I'm praying that Hopkins sees the light soon. I read the book this summer and giggled the whole way through. It's all one big bomb of a joke. See, Thomas Harris is a clever guy. He has no designs on being a literary superstar--a John Grisham, a Jackie Collins, a Stephen King--who churns out crap every year to please his publishers and loyal audience. Harris, for all we know, is sick to death of these characters that have pigeon-holed him.

But he knew that writing Hannibal guaranteed him a mammoth paycheck--$10 million minimum for the royalties and adaptation rights. So what does he do? He collects on the advance, putzes around for 10 years, and convinces us all that he's writing the sequel of all time. The book hit stands in early June and promptly divided the critics; most agreed, however, that Harris had infused his carefully written Hannibal with profound themes and delicate character textures. What a joke! The book, in a nutshell, tracks Clarice in yet another search for Lecter and gradually going insane. By the end, she's his sex slave and they feast together on human brains while the victim--still alive--sits at the dinner table. Laughing yet?

Well, think about this. Harris wanted his money. He didn't want the movie. So he writes a book that can't be made into a movie. "You want a $100 million blockbuster," he's saying right now. "Go ahead. Give it your best shot, suckers." He's walking around with $10 million in his pocket--while we're still trying to deconstruct Clarice's utensil use as she chows on steamed brains. We got burned, big time.