Entourage Is An Insufferable Piece Of Cinematic Bro-ism

Entourage was always the male Sex And The City: a HBO-screened portrait of four inseparable comic stereotypes living large in the big smoke, that began as supposed satire of its appointed world, before turning into luxury-brand-festooned aspirationalism catering to the most grotesque sector of its audience. And, so, it makes sense that Entourage’s inevitable fate is to follow its sister series into cinemas, in the most witless fashion imaginable.

Admittedly, Entourage, the big-screen addendum to the TV show of the same name, may lack Sex And The City’s Magical Negro or the gobsmacking racism and tone-deaf wealth-porn of Sex And The City 2, but, in turn, it’s a film whose very existence seems like a flimsy premise, propped up by an endless run of celebrity cameos and product placement. And it, too, amplifies the worst elements of the original show; Entourage playing like some date-rapist’s fantasy run amok, an insufferable piece of cinematic bro-ism in which our four tiny men are out to fuck anything that moves — seriously, that’s the fraternal code they’re honour-bound to follow — and every background extra is either a pro athlete or a porn-star in a bikini.

“I may have to jerk it before I even get there” is literally its first line, spoken aloud by Kevin Dillon, the ‘loveable lunkhead’ whose existence, in theory, makes the other members of this pussy-chasin’ posse less repulsive. The old gang are reunited on Usher’s yacht, chillin’ in the Ibiza waters amidst a crowd of scantily-clad women. Character-less, barely-credited women in various states of undress are everywhere in Entourage, such overused wank fodder and background-filler that they eventually turn into bland, bronzer-slathered, fake-tan-terracotta-coloured visual wallpaper; which would be an awesome commentary on the banality of nudity in the pornographied new-millennium were it, y’know, intentional.

Once the boys’re back in town, the narrative swiftly throttles into gear: Adrian Grenier’s A-list actor sets out to make his directorial debut, with old pal Kevin Connolly as the producer, and former agent Jeremy Piven as his studio boss. A fake news report hosted by Piers Morgan effectively fills even the most clueless viewers in on the back-story — the film can be followed by someone who hasn’t seen the show, though I can’t imagine why they would want to — and sets the story in motion.

Grenier’s film is, amazingly, Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde reimagined as an EDM-themed dystopian-sci-fi extravaganza, an idea so guilelessly trend-chasing, so awe-inspiringly terrible that, like the TV series’ Aquaman, it seems fated to be made into a for-real Hollywood entertainment before the decade is out (also: remember that time Clint Eastwood made the fake movie from The Player as the terrible True Crime? Good times!).

Were Entourage to exist solely as a satire of movie-biz idiocy, it might be a passable piece of time-killery; with the self-mockery of the endless string of cameo-ing celebrities playing profane, pissed-off versions of themselves (Kelsey Grammer, Liam Neeson, Jessica Alba, T.I., Thierry Henry, etc.) having thematic resonance, and the potential for Jump Street-esque self-parody ripe (although, the eye-rollingly obvious, unfunny, closing-credits bit of this-would-make-for-a-great-movie self-reflexivity shows that even this isn’t creator Doug Ellin’s strong suit).

But, as a movie spun off a ‘beloved’ TV series, Entourage assumes that these are characters you feel fondly about; that you’ll care if their feelings get hurt, their privilege is questioned, or their lives don’t resemble an endless parade of ‘winning’.

And, so, we get a villain: Haley Joel Osment, the son of oil-tycoon financier Billy Bob Thornton, the latter playing a lesser-version of the caricature he delivered in the Coen Brothers terminally-underrated screwball comedy Intolerable Cruelty. He’s cutting the cheques for Grenier’s budding masterpiece (seriously: Hyde as mutant EDM DJ in a dystopian near-future!), and, so, sends his son along to keep a watchful eye on things.

Osment is a goonball just like Dillon, but there’s a curious double-standard in the film, in which when he leers at ladies, it’s clueless, repulsive, disrespectful. The grand narrative drama comes when Osment grows incensed that Grenier slept with the starlet — Gone Girl’s Emily Ratajkowski; AKA: the Blurred Lines girl; AKA: this film knows its lads-mag audience — he’d been eyeing, and tries to scuttle the production out of petty jealousy. This leads to a grand climax in which the bro code must withstand movie-biz politicking, and the line “that’s what movie stars do: walk into rooms and fuck girls civilians want to” is spoken aloud as if profound, irrefutable truth, Entourage’s creepazoid theme distilled to its execrable essence.