So very, very much of the entertainment industry's money has been spent on appeasing stars—actors, producers, directors, to a lesser extent writers—because, you know, that's the way it's always been and once someone reaches the pinnacle of success, they must deserve it. But the recession makes for a handy excuse to say no to things like a star's demand that their favoritest hairdresser fly first class to London and stay for a week in top-flight hotels. With even superdirector, ultraproducer Steven Spielberg tin-cupping through Hollywood, all the other ants marching beneath him ought to brace themselves for a wicked belt tightening.

Mainstay trades Variety and The Hollywood Reporter have already felt the early gut-punch of showbiz's fiscal spring cleaning, as the studios' usually long, protracted, and ad-lucrative Oscar campaigns were a pale imitation of years past. And you know, the entire awards season is used as simply a really, really expensive way of keeping stars happy and in line.

It's a part of a large celebrity rewards system that has, in recent years, ballooned monstrously out of control. As all of us, stars and civilians alike, head closer and closer toward Mt. Doom, the celebrities are starting to seem more like the civilians. And so a story about Jennifer Aniston ferrying her expensive hairstylist to and fro London for a premiere, almost certainly on the studio's dime—that would have once been met with "Oh my, those movie stars! So fancy!"—is now greeted with a "That's fucking disgusting."

We for one welcome our new fiscal responsibility overlords, and hope a new era of penny-pinching studio execs slapping entitled stars upside the head can be ushered in swiftly and mercilessly. Unless, you know, we get invited to the gifting suites. Then it's see you in hell, civilians.

Image via AP

I mean, what else could explain the unending tumble of horribly sad tales of poverty and greed, or the glut of photos on the wires of the child actors standing in garbage or sleeping on rotten beds?

In the days since the film won a raft of Oscars and generated smiley goodwill across Hollywood, there's been a surge of followup stories, like the ones about the understandably tired young boy being publicly beaten by his father for being tired. Or photos of the the girl who played youngest Latika bestride some wooden planks near her home, standing over trash and beside an open sewer. Or reports that the children are miserable at school back home, that it's been a return to terrifying drudgery after a brief, swoony stint as film royalty. And it's all lapped up, for the same reason why the movie soared when the little ones were covered in shit or getting blinded, but kind of sagged when they were grown-up and seemingly well-fed and employed. The horror is fascinating, oddly thrilling. Reflexively relieving. Exposing ourselves to the misery inoculates us against our general, day-to-day apathy. Spend a few seconds scanning a blog post and feeling bad for distant strangers, and your job is done.

Yes we should care about, and be exposed to, the plight of these kids—real Bombabies plucked from the airport slums for true cinematic veracity. Even more urgently, of course "We" should keep a keen eye out to make sure that these youngsters (and their families) are not exploited, that they enjoy a fair portion of the movie's financial successes, etc. The group was recently given houses and money trusts, which is the sad kind of good that is good because they didn't have "real" houses or trusts before, and sad because there's a certain reckless abandon in suddenly giving someone who has less than nothing a whole lotta something. It's a bit dangerous, and needs to be done carefully. Like people suffering from extreme hunger or thirst, the flashy new Having ought to be introduced delicately, lest the whole thing topple over onto itself.

And 'delicate' is not exactly how I would describe this new, splashy pity. The hand-wringing infotainment articles and Sally Struthersy "bugs on their mouths!" photos do bring attention to an important crisis, for sure. (Of course there's the knee-jerk, lazy, leftie cynic reaction: "Um, duhh. It took a silly movie to make you aware of the fact that there are poors in India? How sheltered can you be?"—a sentiment that does have an important (albeit annoying) grain of truth to it, but is not really the issue at hand). But they also tend to incite a reaction of "Won't somebody do something!!!" (from myself included) without any real encouragement for follow-through, except to demand slightly undefinable things from movie makers. Because, I guess, the movie industry is, for all of its excesses, as faraway a place as the Mumbai slums. Those two distant bodies will help each other and we'll just sit back and watch the bow get tied.

And maybe it will! At least for this small set of children. Which, of course, if done right, is a good thing. But there's still the larger issues of us finding celebrity, and strange comfort, in misery. In deeming someone a special kind of sufferer. Are we creating a face for the entirety of the problem, thus making sure the proper channels are communicating, the right heads are turning? Or are we simply weaving a narrative in which we, all of us who saw and supported the movie and now read the horror stories with tingly regret, are singling out a unique few for rescue; for deliverance from a group of people with whom they no longer—they've now been in a movie that we liked, after all—belong?

It begins to seem like we're actually just fretting over characters from a movie. People we'd like to imagine safely satisfied, so we can keep on with our business, confident that there's been some vague and impossible happy ending. Which I guess is just how fairy tales work.

Image via AP

After they were sent on a whirlwind tour of Disneyland and Universal Studios on Oscar weekend, the real-life Mumbai slum kids, who, really, are the movie (sorry Dev and Freida), faced the prospect of returning to their homes, situated near open sewers or consisting of one rotten mattress shared by the whole family. But now Danny Boyle, the film's director, along with one of the producers, has announced that the kids and their families will be moved into apartments worth about £20,000 (that's seven hundred billion American dollars). Then the government said "fuck it, let's give 'em houses" because they're national heroes and, careful, white people are looking—some say it's a political maneuver done in a lead-up to elections, but whatever. The kids will also have trusts set up in their names and be provided with guaranteed rickshaw transportation (seriously) between home and school. The hope being, of course, that they'll get a proper education.

So, yeah, good. I guess. It reminds us of those poor kids in The Kite Runner—that film about hope and dreams and Afghanistan and kites. They were plucked from obscurity in Kabul, then threatened with death after the film was released, partly because one of their characters was raped in the film. Then Paramount swooped in and saved the day, ferrying the children to a new life in Dubai, estranging them from their parents. There was a small outcry—they rarely get very loud when they're about poor brown Muslims—and people demanded that since Paramount had exploited them in pursuit of really authenticity, they owed it to the children to support them in whatever way they required. That was two years ago, though, and now we don't really hear anything about those lost people.

And now it looks as though the Slumdog kids are getting the same worried, hand-wringing treatment. An NGO worth about £500,000 is being set up by the producers and distributors of the film to help all the children of Mumbai's disastrous slums. And I guess there really isn't any other answer here, other than that in the end, Danny Boyle and the rest will go home, and will have to hang up their hopes for these kids on some out-of-the-way hook. So they can keep on with their lives. Because what else can you do. As my boss said, at least Boyle and company didn't blind the kids before putting them to work. No, they left them young and cute and opened a strange side door to a new, tenuous future.

Image of Rubina Ali from AP

Photos from the Vanity Fair party red carpet are via AP. Governors' Ball photos are via Getty.

Diablo Cody's life is better than yours.

Ginnfer Goodwin: We're just not that into that dress you're in. (That's a joke about that movie she's in, How to Lose a Guy While Raising Helen in the Sex City, All This Being Done While Wearing Prada).

Melissa Leo, Kevin Kline, and Phoebe Cates are probably telling each other fart jokes.

Sarah Jessica Parker is still wearing that dress.

Anne Hathaway checks every fifteen minutes to make sure her butt is still there.

Debra Messing recently fired her stylist Rachel Zoe. Her new stylist is a 74-year-old Persian rug maker she met on Atlantic Avenue.

Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer: The happiest couple in Hollywood.

Abbie Cornish and Ryan Phillipe: Cheaters!!!

Adrien Brody moves in on Slumdog Dev Patel's girl, Freida Pinto.

Marisa Tomei, 44, entertains a trio of young men.

What's become of Naomi Watts?

Robert Downey Jr. is either snapping or telling the camera people how he really feels.

Shirley MacLaine hopes that if she stays perfectly still, it will go away.

Meryl Streep checks every fifteen minutes and yes, goddammit to hell, Anne Hathaway is still there.

Oh never mind, Freida. Dev Patel has a new beloved.

Penelope Cruz: "Ith made offff yold!"

"Cigarette, Sean Penn?" "Why yes, thank you Robin Wright Penn."

This is Kate Winslet's life for the next forty years.

Oh poor Dev. Cuckolded again. This time by Danny Boyle

Hah. Sad old Jessica Biel changed out of her ugly dress into... an uglier one.

All images via Getty and AP

Miley Cyrus has 'Gone Green', and is thus wearing a dress made entirely of kale.

Emile Hirsh: Tiny nom nom nom snack.

TV Guide host Lisa Rinna has just returned from a vacation on the surface of the sun.

Virginia Madsen: Divine

Milk scribe Dustin Lance Black (with Cleve Jones) is just too good looking to be a writer. But he is!

Oh, Zac Efron

Zac's professional girlfriend, Vanessa Hudgens, wears John Galliano for the Glad Family of Products.

Slumdog Millionaire stars Dev Patel and Freida Pinto should be made into a stew, because they are delicious. Mulligatawny!

Benjamin Button nominee Taraji P. Henson looks like a black version of my dear friend from college, Jackie. Hi black Jackie!

Melissa Leo: Princess of Power!

"Halo! I am Heidi Klum! German noodle, kitten kaboodle! In Germany we have flamingos that we call Standy Birds. Halo Standy Bird, you are me! I'm German!"

Sarah Jessica Parker just wants someone to marry her. Someone, you know, real.

Some detailing on that dress. And on that relationship.

Viola Davis looks terrific. And like an Oscar. I hope she wins.

Sigh, Diane Lane. Unfaithful was a long time ago.

Amy Adams: The Devil's wife.

Marisa Tomei couldn't decide which white-ish dress to wear, so she wore all of them.

Amanda Seyfried: B'oh!

Ohhhh the vampire! Eat me Robert Pattinson! Eat meeee!!

Leslie Mann, funny wife of Judd Apatow, skinned a disco ball.

Beyoncé. My friend Kelly tells me she'd "put a ring on it." I'd put a bag over it.

Mickey Rourke will show you to your table.

Penelope Cruz ith Au'rey Hepburn. (That is how you type in a Spanish accent, btw.)

Angelina Jolie is wearing a black dress. Fascinating.

Jessica Biel goofed the floof.

Dark Knight fan Kate Winslet in her Harvey "Two Face" Dent costume.

Marion Cotillard will explode tonight.

Evan Rachel Wood is sad about being Evan Rachel Wood.

A teenage boy and his fifty-something-year-old father just fainted. Thanks, Meryl Streep.

Alicia Keys: Stunning.

Lovely old ladies being lovely and old together. I think I had Sophia Loren's dress for dessert last night.

Tilda Swinton's top half is full of raked leaves.

Anne Hathaway is too skinny. Her dates are too gold.

I do not give a fuck what Jennifer Aniston does with her life. I don't think that she needs a husband and a baby, that she will never be content unless she finds love. But! I do think that someone somewhere does think that. If not about Jennifer Aniston then about themselves. And I think poor Jen has become the receptacle for all the single-girl insecurities. She's got gobs of money, a fit body, great hair and possibly, a skilled cosmetic surgeon. Some women seem to think, "If she can't find love, what hope is there for me?"

And not only does Jen represent the fears single women have about themselves, she embodies the irrational terror the rest of the world has about single women. Despite the fact that she has never made any comments supporting these facts, she is painted in the press as a "high-maintenance, desperate, wannabe bridezilla who'd poke holes in your condom with a pin as soon as look at you." (Ms. Hudson's words.) How did it come to this? And why does Ms. Hudson hold us accountable? Plenty of celebrities find love — in as much as two self-obsessed shallow people can love each other. But if Jennifer Aniston really wanted to dedicate herself to getting hitched, she would probably stop dating celebrities. There must be some independently wealthy businessdude out there (that way she knows he's not after her dough) whom she could date. But the truth is, she may not want a husband and a baby. She may want to shag Brad Pitt, models and rock musicians and move right along. Why do people care so much?

We've Made Jennifer Aniston's Love Life The Pitts [Mirror]

I saw Diablo's incredible debut, Juno, on Wednesday night. It's about a 16-year-old girl (Juno, played by the unparalleled Ellen Page) who, after finding herself pregnant and half-heartedly attempting to hang herself with red-rope licorice, decides to keep the baby. At first Juno is going to have an abortion, but is freaked out by the clinic receptionist, who offers Juno boysenberry condoms, because, as she explains, they make her boyfriend's "junk smell like pie."

Juno decides that she wants to give her baby up for adoption instead, and she pictures the ideal adoptive parents as "A graphic designer with a cool Japanese girlfriend who plays the bass." The language in Juno is quirky, but not so precious that it feels forced. When Juno tells her best girlfriend, Leah, that she's up the stick, Leah goes "Phuket, Thailand!" (Don't worry, I've already integrated that into my vocabulary.)

After the preview screening, there was a Q&A with Diablo, Ellen Page, Jennifer Garner (who plays the potential adoptive mother of Juno's unborn child) and director Jason Reitman. I asked Diablo about her experience as a woman in Hollywood, what, with Warner Brothers' head putting a freeze on films with female leads and most lady roles reserved for hookers, victims and doormats. Diablo said that although she had no trouble getting Juno made, her subsequent experiences in Hollywood have inspired her to go on a personal mission to make movies starring complex, intelligent leading ladies. In a New York Times article that comes out this weekend, Diablo says: "The attitude towards women in this industry is nauseating. There are all sorts of porcine executives who are uncomfortable with a woman doing anything subversive. They want the movie about the beautiful girl who trips and falls, the adorable klutz." She's also working on the lady version of Superbad, which is tentatively called Girly Style, and which I will see as soon as humanly possible.

I went up to talk to Diablo after the Q&A like a big dorky fangirl, and guess what? Not only was she totally generous and down to earth, but she reads Jezebel!! Diablo herself was discovered and encouraged to try screenwriting after a producer read her blog. So Diablo, if you're reading this, thanks for creating subversive female leads, and we hope you create many, many more.

Diablo Cody: From Ex-Stripper To A-Lister [Entertainment Weekly]
The Pussy Ranch [Diablo Cody's Website]
Earlier:
"Cordial", "Charming" Studio Chief Explains Why Women Can't Sell Movies (Except Julia Roberts)
Women In Hollywood Speak Out On Women In Hollywood

For those interested in coincidences, the pictures were taken exactly 35 years apart.

**Update: We're being informed that top photo of Paris was taken not by Nick Ut but by Carl Larson of INF; Nick Ut of the Associated Press is responsible for the below:

Maybe Al Has A Point [Andrew Sullivan]
Related: Nick Ut Recalls The Events of June 8, 1972