ENTOURAGE (2015) FILM REVIEW

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15, 104 Mins

Materialistic male, puerile propaganda.

Perhaps there’s just one thing you need to know about ‘Entourage’ (2015) – the ghastly cinematic spin-off of HBO’s long-running “lads” show. Any production inspired by and celebrating the reprehensible pursuits of Tinsel town bad boy/racist/anti-Semitic Mark Wahlberg deserves to burn on a bonfire bigger than the Chrysler building!

Between 2004 and 2011, ‘Entourage’ dominated worldwide telly sets. Described as a male ‘Sex and the City’ (1998-2004) (that concept alone makes one want to thrust his face through a window screen!), the TV series centred around a gaggle of shallow, sexist, chauvinistic twentysomething “bros” pursuing their most hedonistic Hollywood fantasies.
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Despite having less talent or enthusiasm for acting than a Zac Efron-Will Shatner hybrid, this superficial, hard-drinking bunch succeeded at every turn. Whether it be preaching Golden Globes, speeding Ferraris rooftop down along Sunset Boulevard or screwing bikini blondes, we all wanted in on the entourage! (DO WE REALLY?!!!)

All the while, the loathsome lot seemed to receive not a creak of comeuppance for their debauched actions! You know why? ‘Cause they’ve got CASH! LOTS OF CASH! SO THEY MUST BE GREAT, RIGHT?!!

Of course, the world’s testosterone-fuming “BANTAAR” menaces lapped it up (who doesn’t identify with men obsessed with nothing, but the size of their parts, property and contents of wallet?!!). Didn’t stop hundreds of critics panning the show as a misogynistic glorification of an unsustainable red carpet lifestyle that most works would gleefully mock!

Ah well. Here’s the “LONG ANTICIPATED” film version!

It’s 2015 and Wahlberg-influenced A-lister Vince Chase (walkin’ wardrobe Adrien Grenier) and co. are ridin’ high on Ibizan seas!

Joining smackably smug Vince are inscrutably whiney failed actor/big bro Johnny (Kevin Dillon as arguably the unfunniest performer on planet Earth!), Tequila dealer Turtle (Jerry Ferrara) and lousy cheat Eric (Kevin Connelly) (a man so horrid he’d cheat on his singularly natural-looking pregnant wife for a botoxed bimbo!).

As you can expect, there’s yachts, pools and "babes". PLENTY OF THEM!

And so the “Entourage” have actively achieved their “American Dream” (CRINGES LOUDLY!); inviting audiences to play a bleach-bathed drinking game of how many times the stars mention “dick”, “f**k” or “hot” in the same sentence!

Naturally one would expect such repugnant jerks to be heading rapidly for cataclysmic downfall. Isn’t that usually the case in most antihero sagas featuring foul humans at the top?

Except the “entourage” aren’t antiheroes. THEY’RE JUST PLAIN HEROES!

The only antihero around is Jeremy Piven’s snivellingly self-obsessed Studio CEO Ari Gold. The character may be a disgraceful stereotype of a money-grubbing Jewish businessman, but there’s at least a minuscule attempt at deconstructing his career-driven, corporate agenda.

It is Ari who greenlights Vince’s planned strip show of a directorial debut or, should I say, a putrid orgy of Consumerist porn that makes Fox News seem lovingly liberal!

Justifiably, a couple of Hollywood executives are livid at the film project known as “Hyde”. The most vocal sceptic is a matted-haired, corpulent slob named Travis (‘The Sixth Sense’s Haley Joel Osment!).

This being a film where every “scum of society” is bafflingly either fat, coloured or mentally handicapped, Travis is unsurprisingly the target of entourage hate. Ironic given ‘Entourage’s scummiest are actually its toned and lean leads!

With Ari battling embarrassingly hard to rescue Vince’s abysmal piece from a snobby committee, we viewers are left praying to the high heavens for the bureaucratic board to cancel this clusterf**k of a production. That’s the joke, ain’t it? The joke being audiences laughing riotously at Commercialistic figurehead Ari having his greed shoved right back up his selfish arse?!

OH, OF COURSE NOT! Obviously the entire panel adore Mr. Chase’s revolting RedTube trash! Thus awards beckon for our vile central gang…

I have no reservations about my dislike of gross-out frat boy comedies; featuring utterly unredeemable egomaniacs spending every second and penny on penis toys, house parties and smokin’ starlets. However whereas ‘The Inbetweeners’ (2008-2010) found satire in its sex-minded blokes being the crudely crass losers of the high school crowd, ‘Entourage’s “entourage” couldn’t be more loved!

How bizarre given these are the kind of phoney posers, most girls would sprint 200 yards to get away from!

And yet every lady (here) wants to get laid with them! Not only casual passers-by, but the industry’s longest-ever conveyer belt of celebrity cameos!

Amongst those egging desperately for moments alone with men who can only be described as “YUCK!”, Emily Ratajkowski – best known for Robin Thicke’s ‘Blurred Lines’ music video – is a token, mostly clothed brunette. Clearly a pathetic attempt at diversity in a half-naked back-catalogue of dyed gold-heads in hot pants!

Further star-studded faces humiliating themselves include Jessica Alba as a gun-toting action queen refused leading parts due to her gender (HOW APPALLINGLY RETROGRADE?!).

Most heartbreakingly for me, however, came with a camera wave from my favourite Emma Stone. As she appeared to embrace the nasty crew with nothing, but genuine fondness; rarely have I felt so distressfully saddened. WHY EMMA? OH WHY! YOU’RE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS!

Only MMA Champ Rhonda Rousey seems morally outraged – her head-locking knockout of sleazy Turtle coaxing a brief chuckle from my throat. Albeit not one out of hilarity yet rather relief at a prejudiced prat receiving exactly what he deserves.
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Shame the same can’t be said for the rest of the film then.

‘Entourage’ revels in the vacuous emptiness of celeb obsession. The kind of sickening sensationalism that would cause even  the Daily Mail to suffocate on it's own vomit!

Every actress/model/musician is airbrushed and squashed in at the waistline, while choked in plastic surgery and fake tan. However each one seems sycophantically smiley and blissful, not stressed and tearful!

More creepingly, though, this is a film demonically possessed by deceitful Capitalist propaganda – an opening title sequence dripping with billboards clogged by names of cast members hyper-stylized as nauseatingly glitzy brand logos. It’s like a gigantic Rolex commercial masquerading as a ZOO Magazine cover. Screaming to the world that money, materials and mating are the three cures for masculine identity crisis. Meanwhile – if we all foolishly followed the “Entourage remedy” – any soul craving a deeper existence might as well go to hell!
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