Recently, I took a trip from Toronto to Los Angeles. For the plane ride, I brought along plenty to read -- you know, books and stuff like that. Yet once I'd cleared the security hurdles and ambled to the newsstand kiosk, what to my wondering eye should appear? That's right -- the big, fat, bloated, star-engorged Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair.

This is what's known as a Perfect Magazine Moment. Because, really, is there anything more appropriate for a six-hour flight to L.A., with a one-hour stop-over in Detroit, than a fat new issue of Vanity Fair? And the Hollywood issue, no less?

We here at Fametracker may do our share of VF-bashing (in fact, we'll do some later in this very piece -- patience, my pretties, patience). But I have to admit that seeing that VF on the airport newsstand felt like that moment in the map room in Raiders of the Lost Ark when the sun hits Indy's Staff of Ra just right. Angel choirs swelled. The magazine verily shone. And I stumbled, entranced, towards it: You throw me the magazine, I throw you the whip. No time to argue.

First of all, the Hollywood issue, timed annually to the Oscars, always promises lots of glamour. In fact, this year it probably delivered more glamour than the actual Oscars. After all, at the Oscars, we had Matthew McConaughey introducing Gangs of New York (because Scorsese and McConaughey go together like peanut butter and toothpaste) and looking like he'd arrived to pick us up for the prom with his little red, white, and blue boutonniere.

On the cover of Vanity Fair, by contrast, you get, as the cover itself proclaims, "Tom, Harrison, Brad, Jack, um, Tom..." As in Hanks, Ford, Pitt, Nicholson, and Cruise! All together! Yes, you heard me right! And that's just the first fold, fothermucker!

Looking at the cover, your first thought might be, "Damn, Vanity Fair sure can swing a big stick." Your second thought might be, "What? Mel Gibson wasn't available?" And your third thought might be, "But who then would they have bounced from the front cover to make room for Mel?" ["And your fourth thought might be, 'Mel Gibson, the guy from Signs? Oh right, never mind.'" -- Wing Chun]

The answer, or answers, can be found on folds two and three of the cover: namely, Ed Norton, Jude Law, Samuel L. Jackson, Don Cheadle, and Hugh Grant (that's Fold Two); and Dennis Quaid, Ewan McGregor, and Matt Damon (that's Fold Three).

Quite an impressive line-up -- more impressive, in fact, than Oscar night itself. Though if you want to make like Sesame Street and play "One of these things (is not like the others)," then you have to figure that Dennis Quaid owes his publicist a very big fruit basket. We're talking entire pineapple trees here. Sure, he had a good year (with The Rookie and Far From Heaven building on his Traffic momentum) but come on -- Dennis Quaid? On the cover of Vanity Fair? Hanging with Jack and Brad and the two Toms? And Dennis even got to sneak one of his arms onto the second fold! Nice going, bro! Take that, Affleck!

So you can see why our pulses race a little whenever the Hollywood issue comes out. All the drama, all the intrigue, all the glamour -- and we still haven't cracked the cover.

Perhaps, however, we should have kept the cover uncracked, since it's all a vertiginous spiral downward once you head inside. Maybe not downward -- rather, backwards.

As we've noted in this space before, Vanity Fair loves to plump out its Hollywood issue with lurid tales of Hollywood's most glamourous and miscreant players -- from fifty years ago. Now, we love a fond reminiscence as much as the next person, but in this issue it gets a tad ridiculous.

After the opening offering -- in which James Wolcott tries and fails to convince you that Heat is actually a really great movie, and not just a really long one -- we settle into the time machine. And who's that at the controls, spinning dials and adjusting gauges? The one with the pilot's goggles and the crazy shock of white hair? Why, it's Graydon Carter! He's setting the tempometer! Fasten your seatbelts, everyone! Next stop: 1954!

That's the year in which we find the story of Robert Harrison and Confidential, the magazine that, in the mid-'50s, was the "scourge of Hollywood, naming names and dishing dirt." Frankly, we'd rather read the magazine that's the scourge of Hollywood in the mid-right nows. But then again, we all know that magazine is decidedly not Vanity Fair.

After this long and difficult-to-plow-through article on "The Scandalmonger," we arrive at a long and difficult-to-plow-through article on "The Superagent," Charlie Feldman. Apparently, Feldman ruled over Hollywood in, you guessed it, the 1940s and 1950s.

Great. Fine. Wonderful. We enjoy history. He was, apparently "the man who minted style." To find out what else he did, you'll have to read the whole piece -- we say this not because we're leaving it for you to savour, but because we didn't make it through more than a few years of Feldman's style-minting reign as Hollywood's former etc., etc., etc.

That's because we were too plum excited to rocket forward in time another, oh, seven years or so. Welcome to the 1960s! Smiles, everyone! Here we find a long appreciation of comedian Phil Silvers, who revolutionized comedy back in the '60s. Um, once again -- we're on board with the history jag. Must honour the elders, and VF writers have book excerpts to sell and all that. We appreciate this.

But as we understand it, Hollywood actually still exists. Apparently, there's still a viable industry that produces many new movies every single year. In fact, we believe that there are superagents and innovative comedians and even scandalmongers currently at work in Hollywood today. And we look forward to reading about these people in the Vanity Fair Hollywood issue in April, 2053.

Wait -- Graydon's got his hand on the time dial. Hold on, folks! We're going -- backwards even further! Goodbye, 1960s! Hello, 1937! Here we find the story of a woman who was assaulted by a very weaselly-looking agent, and who took on MGM after the studio tried to hush her up.

Look, any one of these stories makes for fine reading, we guess. But four in one issue? Back to back to back to back? Isn't there anything to say about, you know, nowadays?

Oh, wait. Here's something. It's a piece on Brett Ratner's new book of candid photo-booth photos of celebrities. Hey -- something new! Someone alive!

And the piece is written by...Robert Evans. You know, the shrink-wrapped, tinted-glasses-favouring, suddenly-famous-again producer. We didn't know he could write! Maybe that's because...he can't!

He can, however, whip up sentences such as "Whether it be a Monet watercolor, a Frank Lloyd Wright home, a Henry Moore sculpture, or a Michael Jordan jump shot, they all share one commonality. No price too high does an original bear. That fits Brett Ratner too."

[Cue spit-take.]

Huh? What? Did we read that right? Did Robert Evans just compare Brett Ratner to Monet, Frank Lloyd Wright, Henry Moore, and Michael Jordan?

[Cough, cough. Sputter, sputter.]

Did Evans actually write the sentence, "No price too high does an original bear"?

[Choke]

And might we suggest to you, Robert Evans, that Michael Jordan's jump shot, for example, does not bear a price too high, if there's in fact a price attached to it, since it's a jump shot? You're not likely to find it for sale on eBay.

The follow-up sentence to this hilarious rimshot opening is not, as you might expect, "But seriously, folks," or "But don't take my word for it because I'm crazy." Evans instead goes on to write, "His success may come from his talent, but there are many talented people. It is his persona that is singular." Ratner's persona? You mean the jacked-up, obnoxious Joisey Boy who bluffed his way into NYU? That delightfully singular persona?

Graydon Carter: Are you reading this stuff? Did this cross your desk? Are you not embarrassed?

The article, such as it is, ends like this: "Like its creator, Hillhaven Lodge: The Photobooth Pictures is a one of a kind that only a kid who has extraordinary vision and is totally devoid of pretense could have pulled off." Robert Evans, that sentence doesn't even make sense, unless you're saying that Brett Ratner is a one of a kind that only a kid with extraordinary vision etc., etc. could have pulled off. Which very well may be what you're trying to say, sadly.

But at least you have an excuse: you're a nutty movie producer. As for you, Graydon Carter, we know you had to kiss up to Evans to get that documentary done, and no doubt you're now great pals. But would it have killed you, or insulted him, to have introduced him to an editor? Let them have, you know, a five-minute chat over the phone about grammar and issues like that?

Oh, fie.

Onward then. At least we've escaped the 1950s time warp...Or have we?!

Psych!

After that brief interlude in the present, we're rocketed back to 1962 to face an expansive rumination on Sam Spiegel, "The Showman," who produced Lawrence of Arabia, The Bridge Over the River Kwai, and many other classics of years past.

We're now 322 pages into the magazine and we've barely even scratched the '70s.

So let's fast-forward. Next up we have "Herb Ritts's Leading Ladies," or Really Famous Photos To Which Vanity Fair Could Obtain the Rights Following Ritts's Death. This seems like it should be a good feature, as Ritts was a good celebrity photographer. However, this was probably a last-minute addition to the issue. Whatever the reason, the photos on display aren't displayed nicely, and they're not a particularly representative or pleasing selection - unlike, say, the splashy, special-stock section given over to the photos of Annie Leibowitz in a recent issue.

But if it's beautiful, artfully presented photos you want, then you should just skip forward to the annual Hollywood Portfolio. Aside from seeing who makes the cover, the Portfolio is the best reason to buy the Hollywood issue every year. That said, some years are better than others, and most years are better than this one.

To start off, there's a flattering, if severely retouched, photo of Kathy Bates; Diane Lane gets the standard b&w treatment from Bruce Weber; and John C. Reilly gets a substandard, "sad clown" treatment from Annie Leibowitz. (We know you're shooting these things, like, three a day, but really -- sad clown? Is that what it's come to?)

What there isn't, however, is a real stunner in the whole bunch. There are, however, a few headscratchers. We pride ourselves on trying to keep up on, you know, celebrities, but we can't figure out why Yvette Mimieux: Actress, Writer, Yoga Instructor is within 500 feet of the Hollywood Portfolio. Her little bio offers no clues. "Yvette Mimieux began her career wearing a toga and fending off blue-skinned Morlocks opposite Rod Taylor in The Time Machine...As an empowered woman in the 70s, Mimieux wrote a TV movie starring herself...she still has a knack for doing the right thing at the right time in the right outfit: note her instructional yoga video..."

Consider it noted.

For the most part, the photographic juxtapositions -- often the key element in successful celebrity portraiture -- are unsurprising and uninspired: Reilly as a sad clown, Hilary Duff on a lollipop; Ice Cube as an old-fashioned gangster. David LaChapelle even manages to botch a photo of three Vivid Video porn stars. David LaChapelle! Porn stars! Perhaps it was just that kind of year.

(P.S. For those of you interested in seeing Robert Evans in all his poolside reptilian glory, he's also included in the Portfolio, looking leathery and slithery. Hey, after penning that article, the magazine owed him one.)

There's only one more article of note in the issue worth discussing. And no, it's not "All Thanks to Max," an ode to Max and Mira Weinstein, as written by their son, Bob, brother of Harvey. What fortuitous timing! Harvey and Miramax are getting slagged for their boorish Oscar campaigning, and here's the normally spotlight-shy Bob riding in to remind us that, Hey, it's All Thanks to Max, "the diamond cutter whose dreams and passions for the movies turned two young boys from Queens into Hollywood's most formidable team." Gee, this magazine seems awfully heavy to be Hello!. Oh, wait...nope, still Vanity Fair. Amazingly.

Ah, yes -- but there is one article in which the magazine fearlessly tackles a contemporary entertainment superstar, laying bare his excesses, his eccentricities, and his crumbling business affairs! Don't let it be said that Vanity Fair has no bite! Don't let it be said that Vanity Fair is afraid to take on the industry's titans, damn the consequences! Because here, in this issue, Vanity Fair unflinchingly reveals the ugly truth about...Michael Jackson!

Apparently, Jackson is a bit of a nutter! Finances in ruins! Quirky behaviour! He's even been linked to...little boys!

The new revelations picked up by the rest of the press -- about Jackson's voodoo hexes on Spielberg and David Geffen -- take up the first few paragraphs of the piece. The rest is a fairly by-the-book rundown of...well, Crazy Michael Jackson, and how he got to be that way. There are financial-ruination details, for those who want more details. There's additional "police truly believed he was guilty of molestation" material, to compliment previous exposes in which the police revealed that they truly believed he was guilty of molestation.

Look, the man's nuts. Crackers. Gonzo. Welcome to the pile-on. But next year, why not write a similar investigative piece about, say, Robert Evans? Or any of Tom, Tom, Harrison, Brad, or Jack? Or -- gasp -- Brett Ratner?

But enough of that fantastical talk. For now, faithful readers, turn your attention to the final article in the issue. It's a diverting tale, titled "Gentleman's Agreement," that takes you back to Hollywood's Golden Age, when producer William Frye enjoyed the company of Cary Grant and the friendship of Jimmy Stewart. Won't you lie back as Frye lulls you with his tale of Hollywood's glamourous, bygone days, when men were men, moustaches were skinny, and magazines never whispered a disparaging word about anyone, or at least not anyone powerful....