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.

TREND-O-RAMA: BASH KATHIE LEE

For a while, it was trendy to hate Kathie Lee. After all, she was condemning little children to miserable existences in sweatshops while she sat on TV and made a fool of herself every morning. Check out any of the anti-Kathie Lee web sites for more ammunition. On one site, there's a call for "pictures of a naked Regis dancing on Kathie Lee's severed head. Digital recreations are welcome."

But after we bash and trash, rehabilitation is inevitable. This time it was Frank Gifford, Kathie Lee's lowly husband, who caused the backlash to the backlash after photos of him and his mistress were plastered all over the tabloids. For a while there, Kathie Lee managed to be a victim. Well, folks, it's time to start bashing again. You see, Little Miss Sweatshop decided to send a note to Howard Stern after Stern's painful separation from his wife of 21 years. Stern and Kathie Lee, of course, aren't particularly good friends. Actually, Howard has made it quite clear that he thinks Kathie Lee is the devil. The note read, "I was very sorry to hear the news that you and your wife have separated. God loves you and he cares about you and each member of your family. He's there when you need him." Here's hoping that Fart-Man makes an unwelcome appearance Regis and Kathie Lee in the near future.

SOMAN'S SHORTS

The titles and theme songs for James Bond movies are getting worse and worse. Goldeneye was an innocuous one and the Tina Turner ditty had some longevity. But what in God's name does Tomorrow Never Dies mean? And that cacophony by Sheryl Crow? And to prove that it wasn't a fluke, now we get The World is Not Enough (it sounds like a Danielle Steel novel) with a boring title track by Garbage. Bring back Octopussy...Michael Mann is one of the finest directors around. He's particularly intriguing because he makes testosterone flicks that somehow play better to females than males. Check out The Last of the Mohicans, Heat and his latest, The Insider...The Backstreet Boys are being criticized because they refused to visit a young girl dying of leukemia in Detroit because of scheduled commitments. It's actually a legitimate excuse--are we hearing the first signs of irreversible backlash?…Ben Stiller's getting married. What happens to Janeane Garafolo?...Oh, and finally, does anybody have a videotape of that original Pokemon pilot that caused all those violent seizures in Japan? If I'm ever going to figure out what's going on with Pikachu and his pals, I'm starting with the real thing.