Bottleneck Blondes

Who's struttin' with (and after) George Clooney on a pandemonium carpet? Plus, our very own mother-daughter Dynasty team, Candy and Tori Spelling, prepare for battle No., what, 473? Ever heard of therapy, you two? And Nicole Kidman has a defender—who knew?

Candy Spelling and her daughter dearest, Tori, are not speaking. Again. Like this is a surprise. Catch Tore-babe’s tell-all, sTORI Telling? This, say the mother and daughter's close insiders, is the reason for the latest chill, but I don’t buy it. Think it harks back to when Candy didn't exactly prevent Aaron (say their buds) from relieving the kids from the bulk of the Spelling boob-tube monies. How the ef do you ever get over a familial burn like that? I mean, you can write all the blab books, do all the easy-target cable shows ya want, and you’re still most likely not going to be healed by the time you're Candy’s age.

But Candy’s healing just fine. Already dating again since that last moneygrubbing schmuck she dropped. And she’s still reigning supreme over the most expensive residential property in Hell-Ay, even if the joint’s supposedly being sold to some 90210-worshipping sheik every other second. Candy’ll be there forever, battling with the servants, like she always does, till Tori’s probably one of them, would be this column’s hunch.

Oh, and forgot to tell ya yesterday that Tom Cruise—who will most likely be Candy’s butler if he doesn’t get that film career together—is looking to do another romance job again. Back to what serves him well (or used to), I guess. Damn. Why does he keep doing this? What used to work well in Vanilla Sky, for ince, no longer sells, so it would appear. At least not to those with brains.

Get your still-sweet ass into an evil, Magnolia-esque flick again, would ya, Tommy? I mean, how many times do we have to tell you this? Till your bangs are as long as Nick Zano’s equipment? And speaking in entirely homo-laden analogies (not to mention segues), love that 90210 alum Jason Priestley is considering playing gay again. Will let you know more on the flick as soon as I hear. Now, that takes cojones, right? Or just an easy gander at who wins Oscars, already—like, duh. Predictable recipe: If you’re a chick, play a hooker—you’re golden in two secs. And if you’re a dude, do the same-sex dance. Just ask Philip Seymour Hoffman, Tom Hanks, Heath Ledger, Jake Gyllenhaal, et al.

Game, Mr. Cruise?

Frankly, we know squat about football—unless we’re talkin’ futbol, in that case, all you need to know you can find out by staring at David Beckham’s tattoos. But we checked out the Leatherheads premiere in T-town at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre this week, hoping to score a touchdown with some hot H'wood talent.

We knew the moment George Clooney showed his pretty mug by the frantic fan alarm that sounded off, sending tourists and passersby in hysterics. You’d think Brit-Brit had arrived in a pink football helmet, but nope, all the calamity was just for one dapper actor, writer, director...The list goes on. Who does Cloon-babe think he is excelling at all these different careers, Justin Timberlake?

Georgey-boy was a total gent, making time to head on over to the massive amount of shriekers to sign autographs, give high-fives and collect thrown bras, we wouldn’t be surprised. Back on the press line, he kept his grip around the waist of luckiest-accoutrement-in-the-world Sarah Larson, involving her in every interview. Are George and Sarah the new Justin and Drew PDA parasites? Highly doubtful.

Matt Bushell, who plays one of the flick’s kooky kickers, had a hard time choosing between Clooney the thespian or Clooney the auteur when we inquired. Eventually, he picked “the actor...'cause I’m bouncing lines with him. But as a director, he’s great, too. He’s such a pro.” So much praise for one guy, we can’t fathom it. Hasn’t G.C. pissed somebody off in all of his 46 years?

Surely there musta been some bad blood between G-Cloo and former flame Renée Zellweger—they didn’t get hitched at the end of the day, did they? The Renaissance man couldn’t have been a total gent in every event. “He’s a great actor and a great director,” says the blond Texan (twig), coughing up the compliments. Wonder if that's spoken as a colleague or as a former Cloo accoutrement?

Renée-babe herself wore a pair of diamond heels so sparkly they could land her back in Chicago if she clicked 'em together three times, trust. R.Z. also donned a royal-blue flapper-esque kinda dress that showed off her way-too-waifish frame. Thought Zell-hon was the one who taught us it’s A-OK to look like Bridget Jones? Hope the squinty siren stocked up on snacks at the after-party, 'cause she needs 'em.

Dear Ted:
Is there some kind of clause in a contract for a star's bodyguards that states the star is responsible for the bodyguards' actions? If not, I don't understand why you feel Nicole Kidman owes anybody an explanation. Sure, she hired the guy to protect her, but she can't control him snapping at someone. You act like she owes people an apology or something, which is ridiculous.
  S.
  Deerfield Beach, Fla.

Dear One Initial:
Awfully shy with your identity for such a pisser, eh? Regardless, Nicole most certainly needs to offer an explanation, as the goon-guard was not only a very close friend of hers, he was acting on her behalf. Get a public-relations grip, already.