Entertainment Weekly's annual Must List issue hits newsstands this Friday. To (ahem) get you in the mood for our action-packed issue (featuring Bradley Cooper, Josh Holloway, Megan Fox, and Cat Deeley) here's a sneak peek at our cover story with Ryan Reynolds, and after the jump, an additional shot of The Proposal star showing off his guns, as well as behind-the-scenes video from his shoot. (And keep checking back at PopWatch all week long for exclusive photo-shoot videos featuring our Must List stars.)
Ryan Reynolds is simply too smart and self-aware to be so
good-looking. The reticent hunk—who kicks off our Must List for 2009,
thanks to his big-screen summer double shot of X-Men Origins: Wolverine and The Proposal--spent
his EW cover shoot wielding a giant water gun instead of an ego, and
try as he might, he simply cannot muster the arrogance to flaunt what
he's got. When asked if he's comfortable as a sex symbol, Reynolds
sighs. "If you take any of that seriously, you need to be euthanized,
ASAP," he says. "There are moments when you can use that to your
advantage. But it's really embarrassing. I think I fear more than
anything just sounding like a complete a--hole when I have to answer
that question."
So let's skip to the work, where the 32-year-old Canadian is more at
home. Of late, he's certainly done enough of it. In a span of 15 months
Reynolds shot four consecutive films: April's teen comedy Adventureland; Wolverine, soon to spawn a spin-off for Reynolds' sarcastic mercenary-turned-mutant, Deadpool; The Proposal, a romantic comedy (in theaters Friday) that lets him crack wise opposite old friend Sandra Bullock; and Paper Man,
which debuted this month at the L.A. Film Festival, where Reynolds
plays Jeff Daniels' imaginary superhero friend. (He also found time
last September to wed actress Scarlett Johansson, a marriage he prefers
not to talk about beyond calling it "fantastic.")
The more prominent of his two tights-centric roles fit the
actor perfectly, and it's hardly an accident: For the past six years,
Reynolds had been trying to develop a Deadpool franchise on his own.
"At its core, this is a movie about a guy in a red spandex suit who's
in the midst of a shame spiral. That cracks me up," he says, promising
the next film will hew closer to the original Marvel mythology than
Wolverine allowed. Meanwhile, in The Proposal, Reynolds dials
down the bang-bang and dials up the charm, playing the assistant to a
hard-driving book editor with an expired visa (Bullock). The two trade
a sham marriage for a promotion, and high jinks ensue. A much-discussed
naked Bullock scene aside, the real draw of the movie is a chance to
see its charismatic stars go head-to-head. "We had a kind of Abbott and
Costello routine we'd been doing for years anyway," says Reynolds of
the natural partnership. "When I get someone like Sandy to work
with--who's so good at hitting the gas--it's perfect for me."
"Noah Lindsey Cyrus & Emily Grace Reaves, with Emily's dog Bunny, pose for the cameras at Brittany Curran's Retro 50's Poolside Bash on Saturday, May 30 in Burbank sporting Juicy Couture vintage bathing suits. The two friends filmed an episode of their Noei and Ems Show at the party. So pretty!"
They are pretty. (And yes, that Cyrus.) But okay, no, seriously? For the love of JonBenet Ramsey, would someone please make Girl Power trendy again? When will Sarah McLachlan let the dogs fend for themselves and worry about the children instead? Do we need to put Ani DiFranco in a Lady Gaga costume? I've never been one for feminism as a trend or branding tool but if it can arrest this particular fall -- and by "fall" I mean "WHY ARE THOSE NINE-YEAR-OLD GIRLS POSING IN SWIMSUITS ON A RED CARPET" -- let's crank out some bumper stickers and dreadlock some hair! I went to the doctor...I went to the mountains...I looked to the children...I drank from the -- sing it if you know it! Wait, does anyone still know it?
Argh. I've got my own theories, but you tell me, PopWatchers: How did we get here...and how can we get back? The No Doubt reunion (and the return of Stefani's tough-chick tank tops) seems like a good start. The revival of Lilith Fair has potential. Honestly, I'd even accept some Spice Girls up in here. Because LADIES. SELF RESPECT. EVEN NINE YEAR OLDS NEED SELF RESPECT.
What do you think? Is the picture above a sign of the apocalypse...or THE apocalypse?
Good day to ya, PopWatchers! Hope you're enjoying your weekend. Me, I woke up on this lazy Saturday and clicked on the TV to find... a blissfully empty DVR! Ah, summer -- how I welcome your warm embrace. The 2008-2009 television season has come to its long-awaited end, and assuming I can avoid becoming attached to any reality programming involving fat people bouncing off things, that means it's time for my favorite annual activity: the reading of as many books as possible before the TV shows start premiering again in the fall.
I've already finished my first novel of the season: Joseph O'Neill's Netherland, about marital struggles and cricket on the fringes of post-9/11 New York. I loved it, and not just because Obama told me to. Sitting now in front of my bookshelves -- organized as they are into "already read," "need to read," and "read but can't remember what it was about" -- I am really getting excited about the months to come. I'm going to start out with More Than It Hurts You by my old friend Darin Strauss, then dive into All the President's Men. I think I've got enough distance from the movie to read Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men at last. I've been meaning to tackle Thomas Friedman's Longitudes and Attitudes for what feels like a decade; elsewhere in non-fiction, there's Elizabeth Royte's Garbage Land, and two from Steven Johnson, Everything Bad is Good for You and The Ghost Map. I never got around to Philip Roth's The Plot Against America or Maureen Dowd's Are Men Really Necessary? As always, Gravity's Rainbow is taunting me like an evil brick. And then there are the guilty pleasures: an unauthorized biography of Axl Rose, or Anthony Kiedis's memoir, Scar Tissue; a stack of old Neil Gaiman graphic novels; John Irving's Until I Find You, which I'm not sure is supposed to be any good but I've read everything else of his so I might as well read that. Also, for some insane reason, I'd like to re-read some Shakespeare this summer. Maybe it's because I'm re-watching Sports Night on DVD, and Aaron Sorkin shows always make me feel like I don't have enough Shakespeare memorized to use when proving a point in casual conversation.
What about you, PopWatchers? What books are going on your bedside table, in your beach bag, or on vacation with you this summer? And how many books do you think you can finish by fall? Summer Book Challenge 09 starts now!
Good morning, PopWatchers. How is everyone today? Have we all slept off our Idol hangovers? I like to picture you out there in your sleepy stupor, Kris fans conked out with lampshades on their heads and party streamers around their necks, Glambert fans just starting to rub the guyliner from their tear-stained cheeks. It's my honor to bring you the final On the Scene report from American Idol 2009, a report that will be kept fairly direct for a variety of reasons, not least of which being the fact that my seat at the Nokia Theater last night was located somewhere just north of Fresno, resulting in my experience of the finale being something akin to watching the show on a very small television situated very far away. The people down there were so small, like ants! And the jumbotron sometimes defaulted to funny patterns instead of the onstage action! And the sound was bad, and easily overruled by the screams of thousands of euphoric teenage girls! And Cory the Warmup Comedian didn't do anything Cory the Warmup Comedian hasn't done thousands of times before! But what a night, PopWatchers, what a majestic, majestic night, in which, really, there were no losers, except for maybe Rod Stewart, Bikini Girl, and at least two out of the four Black Eyed Peas.
If you'll be so kind as to follow me after the jump this one last time, I promise to share with you my thoughts on those performances and many more, as well as all the action outside the Nokia, where I'd been stationed almost literally around the clock since Monday. And then, because it is what we do, I will open the comments up to you, the Idol Nation, to share as many thoughts as you want on the broadcast and the results. I don't know if you've heard, but Kris Allen is Your.Next.American.Idol. The underdog! The dark horse! The kid who auditioned at Churchill Downs and, like Mine That Bird in the Kentucky Derby, overcame impossible odds to win! Me, I wasn't so shocked -- I'd been calling it for Kris all day. But hey, I just work here. Need a scapegoat? Might I suggest Danny Gokey? Get him!
NBC canceled persistent sitcom My Name is Earl yesterday, and, of course, its thousands of fans (as of this posting, precisely 4,371) are irate. One has already started a Twitter petition, or "Twitition," in hopes of staying the show's execution. My only response, naturally, is that I don't think "Twitition" is a successful word. There are too many "t" syllables. Perhaps "Twittion" would be better. Or "Petwitter." What do you think, PopWatchers?
For the last month or so, we Americans have been engaged in some serious soul-searching, exploring the depths of our psyches as we dealt with two issues that threatened to forever alter the way we live our lives. No, I don't mean the recession and torture. I am, of course, talking about Susan Boyle and Carrie Prejean: one, a talented singer of ordinary appearance who defied the prejudice of her audience to become an international sensation; the other, a beauty queen who defied the utter nonsense of the phrase "opposite marriage" to become a mouthpiece for the anti-gay-marriage movement and the most controversial pageant contestant since Vanessa Williams. If you're like me, you've spent a lot of time watching headlines about these two women scroll across a variety of screens and thinking, "Is there no one who can simultaneously reduce the stories of these two women -- and, in fact, the entire female population -- to the most disgustingly simplistic of terms?"
I needn't have worried. For so long as Donald Trump walks the earth, "disgustingly simplistic" will forever be served. Thanks to last night's Daily Show, I now know that Carrie Prejean will retain her title of Miss California, despite her boob job, her racy photos, and her honest-though-small-minded opinion on equal rights for all Americans. Why? Let's let the Donald explain:
"Carrie is totally beautiful. And her answer, because of that, took on greater importance....If her beauty wasn't so great, nobody really would have cared."
And so I can sleep soundly tonight, PopWatchers, content in the knowledge that 1) my current state of residence will not be robbed of its rightful beauty queen and thus left open to attacks from other states who might perceive our lack of Official Miss as a weakness and 2) I can now stop caring entirely about Susan Boyle, because she is not beautiful. In fact, I can stop caring about everyone who does not meet society's rigid and unforgiving standards for aesthetic perfection, so long as they are female -- because clearly, Donald Trump is not applying these same standards to himself or his hair. Thank you, The Donald. This was all really starting to weigh on me. I feel much better now. What about you, PopWatchers?
Well, so that happened. I mean, what do you want me to say, PopWatchers? I know. I know. You want righteous indignation. You want fireballs. You want to hear about how I desired to throw up on Kara DioGuardi's face when she was spazzing out during Allison Iraheta's gutsy final performance as though she'd ever given that girl more than the most cursory compliment over the course of the season. (EDIT: As many of the commenters have pointed out, however, those cursory compliments were often the only ones A.I. got.)
Whatever. We're in a recession. There's swine flu. The Taliban is taking over Pakistan. Santa Barbara is on fire. And tonight was one of my best friends' birthdays, and I could only pop in at her party because I had to come home and write this silly recap about a silly talent show that attracts silly voters who wouldn't know real talent if it hit them with the mic stand that it carries around because it's trying to look "rock." I get it. It's not such a big deal. Allison went home. Adam Lambert's gonna win. Or Danny Gokey. Or Kris Allen. (?) And I guess we'll go on, unless we die broke and sneezing and on fire while subject to hardcore Sharia law. It's fine. I'm fine. You're fine. This...is what happened tonight at American Idol.
After a series of terrifying events during dress rehearsal, tonight's broadcast of American Idol somehow came off without a hitch -- unless you count Danny Gokey's Dementor-like inhalation of the big note in "Dream On" -- and while I may have given this show a lot of crap over yea these many weeks in the Idoldome, it is with utmost admiration and respect that I congratulate the staff and crew on accomplishing that feat.
There's nothing funny about what happened, so I'll give it to you straight: At the start of dress rehearsal, beloved stage manager Debbie Williams stood at the top of the massive glowing staircase. The first three steps are fixed, but the rest roll out from under the band deck; as she followed Seacrest down the stairs, she was caught in the gap when they began to prematurely retract. Observers told me she slipped, then grabbed onto the railing and dangled for a moment before falling the 20 or so feet to the ground. She suffered a severe cut on her leg -- amazingly, according to one crew member, no broken bones -- and was taken to the hospital by paramedics. My thoughts go out to her in hopes of a speedy return, as she is without question an invaluable member of the Idol family, and has never been anything but kind to me and my colleagues.
Dress rehearsal continued, at which point the spinning Idol gyroscope atop the stage right tower came unmoored, showering the stage with glass and causing them to evacuate the theater. Given the way they pack the kids into the "mosh pits," it's a genuine miracle more people weren't hurt. Chaos reigned for the remainder of the preshow, as they struggled to re-seat the audience and tape the contestants' performance clips before airtime. All credit to the stage managers, CBS pages, and -- yes -- Cory the Warmup Comedian for keeping the crowd (marginally) calm and getting everyone situated with about 30 seconds to spare. This...was the most extraordinary thing I've seen in a while.
And so it came to pass that the presence of confirmed rock god Slash in the Idoldome was by far the least interesting thing that happened tonight, an event I'd place somewhere right beneath "Danny Gokey admitting he is a total joke" on the scale of improbability. If I were a superstitious person, I'd say the gods didn't want tonight's show to happen. But this is showbiz, PopWatchers, and that shizz, it goes on. After the jump, a complete breakdown of the evening, including a sneak peek at tomorrow's performances from No Doubt and our very own Paula "Actually Was On Painkillers That Whole Time" Abdul.
Do you mean to tell me, Susan Boyle (if that is your real name) that not only did you appear on British television and, through a once-in-a-lifetime combination of luck, moxie, and a smattering of above-average vocal talent, force that proud country (nay, the world) to violently alter its belief system w/r/t judging people based solely on appearance, but now you have the audacity to reveal that you are not in fact the virginal spinster you (and the producers of the British television programme) claimed you were, and that you have indeed pressed your lips to those of another? Dear God, woman. Have you no shame?
Think of the children: We'd just now gotten them used to the idea that it was okay to be themselves; that money and beauty aren't more important than self-respect and determination; that what matters in life is not the desperate quest for power and sex but rather the quiet appreciation of small gifts and blessings; that if you've never been kissed it doesn't mean you're unworthy of love. And now we have to tell them that you're basically no better than those hussies on Gossip Girl? How dare you.
And if you lied about that, what else aren't you telling us? You had a record deal with Def Jam but they dropped you? You're Piers Morgan's ex-nanny's third cousin twice removed? You're not actually British??? Oh, Susan Boyle. I just don't know what to believe anymore. PopWatchers, help me. I am adrift. And tonight, I fear the tigers are coming, and their voices won't be soft as thunder anymore.
It's that time of year again, when desperate fans start taking desperate measures to save their favorite shows. (See: peanuts, lots of.) Supporters of NBC's criminally underwatched not-quite-a-spy series Chuck have started a Facebook campaign declaring their intentions to buy Subway sandwiches on Monday -- the hoagie franchise has a placement deal with the show -- giving creator Josh Schwartz hope for a third season.
Me? I like Chuck. I'm happy to grab a Cold Cut Combo next week if it helps the cause. Not sure it has a shot in hell at renewal, but I encourage everyone out there in PopWatch land to give the show one more shot before you write it off for dead. I know what you're thinking: Ugh, NO. It's just another will-they-or-won't-they plotline that's gonna drag out forever, and we get enough of that on Bones. Hey! Look! At the below video! THEY HOOKED UP ALREADY! (And to a Bon Iver song, no less!) It's safe for the excessive-shipping-averse to return. And in all seriousness, the last few eps have been pretty rock solid.
But what do you think, PopWatchers? Can/should this show be saved? And what footlong will you get to show your love?
I've remained pretty aggressively on the sidelines of this whole Susan Boyle phenomenon, but when I learned courtesy of Extra! reporter (and former Simon Cowell spit-sharer) Terri Seymour that 
