Entourage

 

We’ve all come across that prick who, during the thirty minutes of trailers, adverts and quizzes sits with the stoic silence of a member of the Queen’s Guard, only to whip out the noisiest, smelliest food available the moment the actual film starts. Shunning the opportunity to either eat beforehand, or use the ample build-up time to, at least, start his foot-long Subway, crisps, Coke, cookie and fucking flask of tea (genuinely), he put me in a foul mood from the moment the opening credits began.

My thoughts passed to his Subway. I remembered the last Subway I had…Veggie pattie on hearty Italian. cheese and toasted, chipotle southwest. Delicious. I was pretty hungry actually. As much as I hate the guy, I can’t help but envy his sandwich. I wonder why they call them Subways? Because they look like a submarine, I guess. Or maybe the Subway carts in New York. Weird how we call it the Underground. It’s such a literal title. What a feat of engineering though, undeniably brilliant in its simplicity. Especially the map. Just genius. British engineering at its best.

As these pointless, monotonous thoughts whirled round my head, I checked my watch and noticed almost half an hour of the film had passed me by, and not a single frame of it had come close to grabbing my attention. I already knew the characters having watched the TV series. I use the phrase ‘watched’ not in the same way as you watch Mad Men or The Sopranos, but more as you watch a dirty fish tank. A mild interest at the creatures, overwhelmed with a disgust at their living habits and environment.

What's not to love?

Entourage follows the lives of four two-dimensional cretins as they weave their uninteresting way around Hollywood. One of them is famous, one of them is his less-famous brother, another one is his manager and best friend, and the last one is the other guy. Their names don’t matter; they just exist to drive an aimless, monotonous plot forward toward its tedious conclusion. Their witless banter and shoehorned antics seemingly exist only to provide a platform for an endless string of pointless, self-indulgent cameos from the likes of Mark Wahlberg, Thierry Henry, Gary Busey, and Pharrell Williams.

I hesitate to use this phrase in a world where its overuse has seen it rendered almost worthless, but it is also among the most misogynistic, sexist films I’ve ever seen. Every female character is either a whore or a shrew, which is not a rare occurrence in film, but it’s the way they are presented on screen that is so unsettling. The fact that it bothered me must mean that someone who actually likes women must have been pulling their hair out in blind rage.  

As the film neared the hour mark I remember why TV and film are so different, and why simply making a feature-length version of a nothingy, half an hour throwaway series was never going to work. I prayed for a tsunami to wash their luxury yacht away, desperately hoping beyond hope that their private plane was piloted by Muhamed Atta. I don’t care what happens to them and their shit lives, I just want them as far away from me as possible.

Before the final scene had even faded to black I was trudging my way out of the half empty screen, only to have my spirit further crushed by an additional scene after the first batch of credits. They certainly saved the biggest douche-chill until last, as the four hapless wankers gathered around to talk about their adventures, commenting that it would make a great TV series. Gettit!? Because there was a TV series! Writer/director Doug Ellin’s reputation as this generation’s Pirandello strengthened further.

My initial thoughts on leaving the cinema were immediately on whether Entourage was the worst film I’d ever seen. But it isn’t a film, it’s just nothing. It’s a shit music video without the song. An exercise in self-indulgent back-patting and ball-washing that deserves to be forgotten as quickly as its disappointing box office takings suggest it will be.

Entourage is showing at Nottingham cinemas now. 

Entourage Official Site