Glib and glitzy real-Hollywood pieces in the New York magazine, New Times manner--the Hollywood of tax-shelter financing, deal-making as art form, Warren-Jack-and-Candy (if you need last names, drop out now), and terminal chutzpah. Whatever Brenner's intentions (""I have not come to shovel another spadeful on the Hollywood corpse""), she turns out to be no less snowed-by-it-all than Louella and Hedda, gushing about Robert De Niro (""on the way to becoming an American Laurence Olivier"") or trying to get mileage out of ""What Ever Happened to Ali MacGraw?"" or trucking out the ancient ""sound of one hand clapping"" line for the hollow return of Cher. Not even the out-and-out nasties take off--Jon Peters and Barbra (yes, again), a $1400-a-week beauty-spa rip-off--and a fictional short-story attempt to get at the being-used essence of a female film executive (poor thing) is downright embarrassing. Brenner's best on business--Dino De Laurentiis, agent Sue Mengers, et al.--but her breezy, know-it-all style never settles down long enough to approach her pretensions to socio-psycho-economic observation. Scattering references, making mistakes (no, Joanne Woodward didn't win an Oscar for Summer Wishes), calling an office assistant a ""twenty-eight-year-old Duddy Kravitz"" and then calling Dino De L. an ""Italian Duddy Kravitz"" . . . Marie Brenner may have a lot more in common with Rex Reed than she'd like to think.