Doug Ellin/USA/2004-2005; R4 (2/3-disc)
Warner Bros, NZ$59.95 | Reviewed by Tim Wong

MALIGNED by blokes who could actually learn a thing or two about the vagina, Sex and the City chronicled the socialite tales of four thoroughly modern women and their frank sexual escapades. Now, the tables have been turned in HBO’s riotous Entourage: men can finally invite each other over to congregate around something other than sport; women can re-educate themselves on the horny urban male and why guys run in packs. The show is pure wish fulfilment for the FHM player: rising rapidly up the Hollywood exchange, actor Vincent Chase negotiates the ebb and flow – or should that be tits and ass – of Tinsletown with his three best mates. His fame is their fortune: plucky Eric is out to make it as the manager of a hot commodity; loutish Turtle is the mooching chauffeur and errand boy; older brother Johnny is the far less successful actor tailgating Vince’s ride. Together, they are Swingers in a Humvee with too much money, too much action, and way too much booty. The spoils are rich for the Entourage crew; however exorbitant the lifestyle, there’s certainly pleasure to be had in such guilt. All of which is enough to make a slut out of a man, so it’s with great relief that the show’s interrogation of Hollywood cuts close to the bone of all that is vapid, bruising, and absurd about this factory of dreams.

Belying Entourage’s grotesque celebrity excess is its self-referential stoush, a lively tussle between broad sex appeal, affirmative narcissism, and the meta-situational comedy of Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm. Both HBO creations exist in the same showbiz universe (David even appears in an episode as his typically irate self); as anatomies, they each infiltrate the vagaries of LA and its parasitical networks, with Vince mingling in hipper, clingier circles to Larry’s liberal-boomer crowd. Since the show’s inception, marque names have clamoured to play themselves in various forms: Gary Busey and Bob Saget take the piss, Jessica Alba and Scarlett Johansson provide window dressing, while James Cameron fills a significant role in Season Two as the director behind a mega-budget adaptation of Aquaman (set to star Chase and Mandy Moore), requiring no less than another giant underwater soundstage for the maker of deep-sea blockbusters Titanic and The Abyss. Most pointed in their sardonic gnaw though are the unofficial spoof-versions played by look-alike actors: a feral ‘Harvey Weinstein’ at Sundance frothing at the mouth; a smug ‘Vincent Gallo’, convinced he’ll rule the world with his latest indie art-wank; internet quack ‘Harry Knowles’, a haughty movie news blogger who’s propably never been laid.

Ploughing the hilarity further are Entourage’s two sorest thumbs, loudest and most obnoxious of which is the talent agency peddle of Ari Gold, forever pitching, brokering, and ball-busting with 24-caret throwdowns like “Is that the way they drive in Tiananmen Square, bitch?” or “Tell Drama he’s on the top of my list of things to do today, along with inserting needles in my cock!” Supposedly based on legendary agent Ari Emanuel, though more realistically a composite of every smarmy, conceited, ruthless industry shark Hollywood has stalking fresh prey, the role is a godsend for Jeremy Piven, here restless with attitude, firing constantly at the lip – a role model for every aspiring egotist who wanted to walk into a room and own it. But the character also embodies a dangerously evolved masculinity: sexist, foul-mouthed and vulgar; homophobic in the constant allusions to cock and anal sex; a man’s man whose only redeeming feature is that in the Gold household, Mrs. Ari rules the roost. At the opposite end of the food chain is Johnny Drama, played with excruciating candor by the lesser of the Dillon brothers, Kevin. If Piven’s Ari evokes all that is crass, filthy rich, and larger-than-life in the movie game, Dillon’s Johnny is the voice of every failed American Idol contestant, every struggling, talent-less actor whose delusions of stardom make them prisoners of this wasteland we call L.A. Though destined to be just another ‘Baldwin’, Dillon’s willingness to self-deprecate on cue endows the show with a comedy of embarrassments in the painful and unenviable tradition of Ricky Gervais.

There’s no avoiding Entourage’s self-serving mantra, its self-conscious image cribbed straight from a gangster rap video, or the obscene self-importance of its characters, content to wallow in the surplus of their material world. Its writers can’t seem to decide whether to make fun of The Lifestyle, or pat themselves on the back for living it. But like the mangled chassis of a car wreck on the side of the road, the fascination is morbid and without shame. The Hollywood celebrity is that high-performance vehicle: sexy, desirable, luxurious, and without any conceivable limit, yet liable to crash, bomb, or write itself off at any given moment. And as the show demonstrates, we’re guilty of rubbernecking all the way. Also not to be overlooked is Entourage’s splicing of E! headlines with those from Variety and Ain’t it Cool News, together often a cruel and frighteningly accurate acknowledgement of Hollywood in the new millennium, fraught more than ever with high risk, fluctuating star currency, and the very economics of an industry as fickle and erratic as a stock exchange.


THOUGH wrangling with the sickening tastes of the MTV generation, series writer Larry Charles (Curb, Borat) injects some backbone to proceedings, contributing audio commentaries on three Season One episodes with creator Doug Ellin – mostly descriptive, though considered enough to remind us that this ought not be bracketed with the likes of The Fabulous Life of... and Laguna Beach. A 10-minute promotional behind-the-scenes pads out the extras, with Season Two claiming an extended featurette dubbed “The Wahlberg Sessions”, with Marky Mark chewing the fat with the cast’s main players. Vincent Chase’s life and times are apparently based on Wahlberg’s early Hollywood years. No prizes for guessing which character plays brother Donnie.