So what? I like Ryan Reynolds. Dude’s talented. He’s got a dry, sarcastic wit. And he is jacked, folks. He’s one ripped motherfucker. Don’t hate. Appreciate. I’m stoked that his acting career has taken off. I’m looking forward to his indie flick, Buried. He’s pretty much the only actor that could get me in the least bit excited about The Green Lantern, and his Deadpool character — and his seven minutes of screen time — was the only redeemable thing about X-Men Origins: Wolverine. And his Motorcade project looks promising.
But a dude-dressed-in-drag comedy? I gotta step off, R². You’re just mocking those of us with heterosexual man crushes. That ain’t right. We don’t want to be tested. Just because we’re a teensy bit infatuated with you as a man, doesn’t mean we have any interest at all in seeing you as a woman.
In fact: All cross-dressing movies from here until forever should be banned from Hollywood. It’s been done successfully two or three times, and that’s it. It will never be successful again. It’s been played out (I know: Some of you are still holding out hope for White Girls 2).
The setup: Reynolds plays a jilted lover who must disguise himself as a woman and befriend his ex in order to win her back. And a studio-paid Allan Loeb (21) six figures to write the script, based on the pitch.
Nono. No no no no no no no! Come on, Ryan. It’s disrespectful. It’s a slap in the faces of all those writers and directors that have helped him come this far, that have elevated him finally to the A-list. It’s one step forward, then a kick in the chest and back into the wall and down the mineshaft.
Mr. Reynolds — all due respect. If there’s anybody that’s willing to watch you in damn near anything, it’s me. This: No. Dude in drag gets no benefit of the doubt. No sir. Bad premise. And nobody wants to see you in a dress, buddy. Nobody.