BEVERLY HILLS, Calif. – Ryan Reynolds is ready to trade one six pack for another. The actor admitted he was sick of talking about his well-defined abs, which are on display so prominently in the new, big-screen adaptation of “The Green Lantern” comic-book series that they practically deserve their own billing. “God, on a scale of one to 10 — one being, ‘This is delightful’ to 10 being, ‘I can’t stop vomiting’ — probably somewhere around a nine; just dry-heaving at this point,” the actor noted, with a smile. —Physiques ab-solutely key to ‘Lantern’ (AP)
He jabs a finger into his open mouth a couple of times for emphasis. “Sort of barfy, you know?”
“There are only so many ways to talk about my stomach. And they’ve all been done. All of them. A ‘celestial washboard, lovingly carved by Abdominus, the Greek God of Perfectly Defined Lower-Torso Musculature, upon which Zeus himself would be proud to hand-launder his divine toga.’ Details, I think that was. ‘Like a half-dozen sacred stones burnished for centuries by the unrelenting current of the Amazon, then plucked from the river by a primitive cannibal tribe and worshipped for their magical symmetry.’ Kind of a reach, Men’s Health. Some sploogey white lines scribbled all over them, before Perez Hilton went nice. Eh, whatever, I don’t even pay attention anymore,” he said, raising his right hand in a dismissive, pantomime jerk-off motion, while his left scoots underneath his t-shirt, lifting it just enough to offer a glimpse of the lower-twopack, the outer contours of which he absentmindedly traces with a wandering pinky finger.
He sits up in his chair and makes intense eye-contact. “It’s time to talk about the work. About the Lantern Code, or whatever it is, the brightest day, dankest night bit. That’s what’s important to me. Do you know hard it is to keep your dramatic focus when you’re standing in front of a giant green tarp wearing head-to-toe Spandex, attempting to emote to a tennis ball on the end of a pole? Of course you don’t, because all you want to talk about is these,” he says, gesturing with a flourish to his you-know-whats, which undulate in perfect synchronization with the hand passing over them.
“I’ve tried everything. I do a Bullock flick. I make the $300 million superhero franchise move. I do an indie for $15 where I lay inside a fucking coffin with a snake for two hours. And does it matter? You people don’t even need those pens, the story’s already written before I get here.”
He snatches away the reporter’s Uniball and places it between the second and third rows of rippling stomach muscles. With a quick twitch of the diaphragm, the pen climbs upwards a row, settling there for a tense moment before an exhale of frustration launches it into the air. He snatches it, considering the spot of ink on its tip. “Maybe I’ll just write the story myself,” he says.
His brow furrows into a weird facsimile of the situation that he so desperately wants to avoid discussing. “That’s it. I mean it. And then? I’m gonna spend a month burying my fucking face in a tub of Americone Dream,” he says, “then read some scripts Kevin James is circling. I don’t care. I don’t.”