Lina Lamont

"What do you think I am, dumb or something?"

Entourage

A guy and a girl went to watch the Entourage movie. He had seen all eight seasons of the TV show. All she knew was that Mark Wahlberg was a producer.

He was looking forward to catching up with characters he’d followed for several years, cautiously optimistic they’d create a movie which packed all the best parts of a hit TV show into a wider canvas. Her curiosity was tempered by wariness that it might just be two hours of puerile action like The Inbetweeners but for bigger kids, probably sexist and almost certainly gratuitous rubbish.

One of them was wrong.

Whether you’re a fan or a novice, Entourage basically plays out like one long episode, devoid of any greater dramatic tension than the MacGuffin of a new movie, this time starring and directed by the gang’s resident heartthrob, Vincent Chase (a reliable Adrian Grenier). His film hangs in the balance unless his old agent, Ari Gold, can secure the necessary finance from a father-son pair of Texan hicks (a mercifully underused Billy Bob Thornton and a surprisingly terrific, if chubby, Haley Joel Osment from The Sixth Sense).

Meanwhile, Turtle is spading Ronda Rousey (the girl thinks this subplot is one of the movie’s more charming bits), and Kevin Dillon’s awful Johnny continues to have all the lines and the gruesome delivery.

Unlike Sex and the City, which produced its own inexorable movies to capitalise on the show’s Stockholm-syndromed audience, Entourage doesn’t even bother to travel the world (it pretends to visit Italy and Spain, but the brief scenes could have been shot anywhere – at least the Manhattan girls scandalised the Middle East). Instead, there’s scene after scene of walk-and-talk or, rather, drive-and-talk, through palm-lined Hollywood streets. Sure, the flash homes may induce sweaty palms on the Martha Stewarts watching, but we’ve seen more exciting cars (and considerably more action among the endless booty shots) in the Fast & Furious franchise. While there is pleasure to be gained from the frequent TV references and celebrity cameos, ultimately nothing of import happens, much of it morally reprehensible.

And it’s impossible not to object to the women: merely ball-breakers or eye-candy, there’s too much fake orange tan and so much meaningless (and sexless) sex, that the girl wonders how Entourage spun out eight series.

He came out feeling it was serviceable but unimpressive, and felt dated – a bit like reconnecting with old pals and realising you’ve all moved on. She was scornful that, unlike James Bond, while Vinnie might be the guy that guys want to be, none of the entourage were guys a woman would want to be with.

As in life, she gets the last word: two stars.

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