It's February, which means that pitchers and catchers are reporting to training camp, the sun's finally staying up for East Coasters past 5:15 PM, and the Vanity Fair Hollywood issue arrives with a portentous thump at the magazine stand.

Wait -- check that. It's Tom Ford's Hollywood issue. Tom Ford owns Hollywood! And he's going to show it to you! One boob at a time!

Who's Tom Ford, you ask? For those of you who don't watch Fashion Television, as we do, and aren't conversant in the feudal sparring of various fashion houses over who designs what where for whom, Tom Ford...well, let's let Vanity Fair tell you. On page 111: "Upon his arrival at Gucci, in 1994, he turned the then nearly bankrupt label into a multi-billion-dollar empire, and, in 1999, he reinvigorated YSL when the Gucci Group bought a controlling stake in its brand."

Need more info? Turn to page 120: "Fresh off a 10-year run as creative director of the multi-billion-dollar Gucci brand (and 4 years overseeing its sibling, Yves Saint Laurent)..." -- wait, isn't that what we just read? Never you mind! The short answer is this: Tom Ford's a guy who kind of looks like a more dapper version of Jeremy Piven, and who made a lot of money for some fashion companies once, as well as influencing a few things that a small number of people care about a lot, and he's also the guy on the cover of the magazine sticking his nose in Keira Knightley's ear. Yeah, that guy. The skeevy one.

We've analyzed Hollywood Issue covers before -- the Byzantine selections, the head-scratching hierarchies, the coded messages in who stands, or kneels, or sprawls in front or behind of whom -- but we can say with total confidence: this is the creepiest magazine cover ever. Ever. Look at it. Two naked young women blasted -- for some reason -- to an alabaster white. Had it been just that, we'd have thought, "Hmmm. Okay. Not a triumph. They went for the naked, it didn't work. Understandable."

But it's not just that, is it? No, it is not. It is that plus a skeevy guy with a hairy chest sticking his nose in Keira Knightley's ear.We'd boldly venture that there's no magazine cover in the history of human eyes that is improved by the addition of a skeevy guy with a hairy chest sticking his nose into someone's ear.

It just doesn't add up. We understand that this cover was a bit of an improvisation -- Rachel McAdams was also supposed to appear, but left when she realized, to her reported surprise, that everyone was posing nude. So, okay. You're making it up on the fly. Understood.

But at what point did Annie Leibovitz say, "You know, what this cover is really missing is some skeeviness and some sniffing. Tom -- you're skeevy, and you've got a nose. Jump on in there."

However, much has been said about the cover already, so we'll move on -- though we'll leave with this one thought. Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johansson are very attractive. If you told us they'd be nude on a magazine cover -- even "nude" in that magazine way of folding and bending and crooking to hide the naughty parts -- we'd have said, "Okay. Curious to see that. Sure enough."

If you'd then said, "But they look awful," we'd have said, "Unfortunate. But possible."

But if you'd then said, "And the cover will make you want to hurl," we'd have said, "Impossible. 'Hurl'? Hardly. Unless there was, like, some Piven-looking dude sniffing around with his shirt open to the navel. But how on God's earth could that possibly happen?"

Moving on.

Page 100: The Editor's Note. So the first ninety-nine pages are -- what? Oh, you know. The usual. Card-stock ads with vaguely Mischa Barton-looking girls sprawled in this year's fashions, which look a little bit like last year's fashions and not that much like five-years-ago fashions but quite a bit like fifteen-years-ago fashions. Hey, Annie Leibovitz doesn't work pro bono.

Pages 100 to 136: Tom Ford handjobbery. Seriously, bring a wet nap. It gets sloppy.

(Stuck in there somewhere is Chris Cornell, ex of Soundgarden, modeling for John Varvatos. That sound on the baby monitor is the last gurgle of our dying youth.)

Page 153: Ahh! It's like coming up for air! The magazine begins, in a great glossy flash and the sickly scent of perfume strips!

And who should greet us for the rest of our journey? Why, it's Hollywood legend...Farley Granger.

Hey, we liked Rope well enough, but Farley Granger...is in here...why?

Pages 154 to 184: We're not going to linger too long on the filler between Farley Granger and the Hollywood Portfolio, on such stuff as "Beyond Luxury: Breathtaking Benefits of Traveling in Style" or "The Next It Thing," a profile of Stephanie Schur (who?) and Jordan Schur (who too?) -- or even "Reviving the Weary Traveler" (a chart about which airlines offer what facial products -- yes, really), except to say that this kind of perfume-spritzed horseshit is exactly why we stopped reading Vanity Fair long ago, and exactly the kind of little knob-gobbling charticlettes that make us want to blow our heads off. Not to put too fine a point on it. But seriously: airlines and facial products? Did this come up in a story meeting? "Graydon, wait -- before everyone leaves, there's something we need to address --" "You mean, which airlines offer what facial products? Don't worry -- we're already on it."

Page 186: And here we enter the Murderer's Row of Vanity Fair columnists -- actually, it's less a row than a wind tunnel.

The good news is that Vanity Fair snatches up hot commentators. The bad news is that the magazine then gives them license to write on whatever outdated nonsense they like. So we get: Hitchens, Wolcott, Dunne, Wolff. Writing on: the Flashman novels, George Bush is a pussy, society indictments, Time Warner. None of which is groundbreaking, surprising, interesting, or newsworthy. We don't even believe that Dominick Dunne is still alive. Look at the photo of him propped up among some plants at the Beverly Hills hotel. It's Weekend At Dominick's! Also: did he get it written in his contract that every one of his articles must feature a shot of him? And did Graydon Carter agree? By keeping him happy, you make us, the readers, sad. But that's a trade-off Vanity Fair seems increasingly willing to make. And why placate Dominick Dunne? He's not even alive.

Page 250: Okay! All right! Here's a piece -- the one on screenwriter Zach Helm, who had a Jerry Maguire moment and decided he wouldn't write crap anymore -- that we were intrigued to read -- and weren't disappointed. Maybe it's partly because it didn't feature a photo of the writer, Jim Windolf, propped up amongst some plants at a hotel. Granted, the piece is sweetened artificially with some "did he or didn't he?" speculation about a suicide attempt that turns out to be a red herring. (Made of aspartame, apparently, if that metaphor's going to hold.) Helm just has two dark black bars tattooed on his wrists, which, frankly, sounds more painful than slitting them.

Page 256: Ah, the requisite "Remember the time when this old star threw a drink in the face of that old star, and Tinseltown buzzed for months?" story. Graydon Carter loves those stories.

Page 276: One of those comparative charts, this one comparing types of directors. Not funny, per se, but readable. We're still trying to figure out why the "Planned Surgery" of "TV Auteurs" is "Face Transplants." Besides, you know, the fact that all the little boxes have to be filled in with something.

Page 285: Wahoo! Here we are! Tom Ford is reinventing the Vanity Fair portfolio! Hell, he's reinventing Hollywood! It's the New Hollywood! Which, it turns out, looks a lot like the old Hollywood, except boobier.

Which is the real problem here. With all the fanfare about Ford reinvigorating the brand, it's more than a little disappointing that the best he could come up with is a lot more nudity. Great idea! Titties! No one's done that before! They might have expected the same result had they given the issue over to Hooters.

The good news is that, for the first time in memory, there's no David LaChapelle -- or David LaChapelle-alike -- shot of a star dressed as Evil Knievel with some strippers and also a midget.

The bad news is that, with the exception of Peter Sarsgaard tied up in ropes, there's not a photo in here that feels shocking or surprising or new. (And we don't know why Peter Sarsgaard is tied up in ropes. We're still trying to figure out the face-transplant thing.)

For example:

Dakota Fanning. She's young. Glamor shot. No boobs, thank God.

Sarsgaard. As discussed.

Then, boom: Sienna Miller. The Nanny Cuckoldee herself. And a fine-looking woman, 'tis true. So how come when we saw this topless photo of her, lounging and smoking, the first thing we thought of was Ray Winstone in the opening shot of Sexy Beast? Seriously -- can't you hear those opening chords: "Walking on the beaches, looking at the peaches"? If Sienna Miller's publicist didn't chew someone out for at least forty minutes over this travesty, which ages Miller by about fifteen years and, against all odds, manages to pry the eye from her exposed breasts to her oddly overdeveloped abs, the publicist should be fired. Everyone should be fired. Except the nanny. The nanny can stay.

Carrying on. Heath and Jake. Black and white. Fair enough.

Then, boom: boobs again! But this time, it's Jason Schwarzman. Not his boobs. Someone else's boobs. We don't know -- some faceless chick. Her boobs. And Jason Schwarzman.

Are you feeling the New Hollywood yet?

Flip, flip: Aha. Eric Bana. Floating in a pool. All oily and whatnot. Wait a second -- this is the opening shot from Sexy Beast. Walking on the beaches, looking at the peaches...

Flip, flip. Angelina's butt crack. Hollywood's Old Guard -- do you feel the hot breath of extinction on your necks?

Bob and Harvey...Someone...Topher Grace, holding someone's legs...Philip Seymour Hoffman, in the exact same pose he's in for every photo ever taken of him. Seriously, we think he just keeps that exact cigarette stub in his pocket, to pull out for photo shoots...

(Is anyone surprised yet? No?)

We were -- surprised, that is; mildly, at least -- at the inclusion of Max "The Crush" Minghella. It's certainly true that for us, as for most moviegoers, 2005 will always be remembered as the year of Max Minghella. Remember how he lit up that one...scene...in Syriana? Look, we're not saying he won't have a breakout year. But why not wait for that year before putting him in Vanity Fair? Oh, right -- New Hollywood. Carry on.

Jonathan Rhys Meyers is handsome. ["No, no. Boys are handsome; girls are pretty." -- WC] We suspect that, if we ever looked under Bruce Weber's pillow, this photo is what we'd find.

Pam Anderson's boobs...Mamie Van Doren's boobiers...

Joy Bryant.

Let's imagine this conversation:

Joy Bryant's publicist: Hello? Joy Bryant's publicist.
Vanity Fair: Hi! We've got good news and bad news!

You can kind of imagine the rest. But do you think they did clothes-on shots, just to fool her? Do you think they said, "Sure, Joy, everyone's going to be naked!" Do you think they said, "Très jolie, Joy. Très jolie" (gratuitous Fame reference) as they zoomed the camera in...? The point is: this photo is embarrassing for everyone involved, and we genuinely sympathize with Joy Bryant, who deserved better than this cheeseball Playboy outtake.

Then: AAAWHOOGA! AAAAWHOOOOGAA! It's some plastic surgeon guy with a giant breast on a golf course, at which point we heard the voice of Ricky Gervais echoing in our minds: "Are you having a laugh? Are you having a laugh?" We seriously, for one second, thought that maybe this was all some meta-textual joke -- the escalation of nudity, the humiliation of random actresses, and that the huge boob was Tom and Graydon's way of saying "Gotcha!"

But no.

The next page is the soft-focus nude shoot of Jennifer Aniston that's more or less the same soft-focus nude shot she's been doing for everyone for three years. Including Vanity Fair, about two months ago.

So this year was different...how? The New Hollywood is new...because why? Besides the boobies? And the inclusion of the occasional person for the apparent sole reason that she was willing to show said boobies?

(Interjection: we love "Take Five" as much as anyone, but why is Dave Brubeck on the last page of the Hollywood issue?)

Conclusion: frankly, the only person who came off looking good in this whole issue is the one person who didn't appear in it at all. Rachel McAdams, walking out of that photo shoot was the best PR move you've ever made.

Maybe that's the New Hollywood.