In a Roger Friedman interview so slobbering you could practically wipe it down and test for candida, the Hollywood Reporter’s most sycophantic journalist pauses from singing the hosannas of Mark Wahlberg—who is introduced as a “phenomenon,” before Friedman remarks on how “his work in every film he does is thoughtful and surprising,” then goes on to proclaim him “the epitome of down to earth and accessible” (actually writing the phrase, “There was no ‘entourage’” at one point)—to allow the heavens to part and angels’ trumpets blow for the following apocalyptic pronouncement: Entourage: The Movie. Say what, bro?
At the Lovely Bones premiere last night in New York, Wahlberg told me that there are two seasons left of Entourage on TV. And then? “We’ll see, there could be more. But then, a movie.”
Leaving aside for a moment Wahlberg’s baffling presumption that it will require another 24-plus episodes of watching Adrien Grenier and Co. call each other pussies while Jeremy Piven screams himself ragged in the background to resolve the Joseph Campbell-esque, epic hero’s journey of a bunch of tools living beyond their means in L.A.—seriously, a movie? Films are typically reserved for telling compelling stories, which has never been Entourage’s strong suit—despite being, as Friedman avers, “one of TV’s most memorable shows.” (Don’t forget to work the balls, Rog.) We’re not even “cautiously optimistic” that there are enough shots of bored shopgirl breasts or Job-like humiliations for Kevin Dillon to endure to fill next season, let alone two more plus a movie. Really, the only possible scenario we could foresee that would sustain Entourage for two more years and then splatter onto the big screen would be for Vincent Chase to suffer a downward spiral of drugs and terrible business decisions, until he’s so unpopular that his only options are to star in a series of increasingly humiliating reality shows. And even then, you know the movie would just end like this:
EXT. HIP L.A. BAR, NIGHT
Vinnie and the boys are on a patio overlooking the Hollywood Hills. It’s overflowing with statuesque blondes, all fat people except for Jerry Ferrara having been banished to the Midwest. Vincent looks sad. Or possibly angry. Or horny.
DRAMA: Don’t worry, baby bro. Dancing With The Stars is a total chick magnet. I heard that after he did it, Mario Lopez scored more pussy than he did over four seasons of Saved By The Bell.
TURTLE: Hey, then maybe E. should sign up. Except I don’t think they let you Riverdance.
Everyone laughs, despite the fact that this is not funny at all.
ERIC: Nice, Turtle, but I’m married now, remember? To Sloan? And now that we’re trying to have a baby, I don’t think she’d take too kindly to me lowering my sperm count by wearing tights seven days a week. Hey, in fact, she’s calling me right now. Hi Sloan!
Eric answers his cell phone and exits stage left to have yet another conversation with Sloan. Sadly, she is not calling to say goodbye forever, and thus their interminable relationship will drag on for several more chemistry-free years.
Ari walks up. He looks agitated. Or possibly happy.
ARI: Hello, ladies. Vinnie, I just got off the phone with some cocksucker over at Universal. Guess who wants you more than Roman Polanski wants 13-year-old girls?
VINCENT: Let me guess: VH1?
DRAMA: There’s nothing wrong with VH1, bro. Scott Baio does some good work there.
ARI: If we could go ahead and derail the I Love The ’80s nostalgia train for just a second, Drama, I’ll finish my thought: Seems there’s been a total shake up, and now there’s a brand new studio head in charge. And guess what his favorite movie of the latter half of the first decade of the 2000s is? Mother. Fucking. Aquaman.
ARI: Really. And if you’re up for it, he’d like to maybe sit down over brunch with you and talk sequel. Seems he thought Jake Gyllenhaal was a little too Aqua-queer—I believe “Brokeback Poseidon” were his exact words. Of course, I told him you were too busy training to square up against Donny Osmond and see who was more homoerotic.
There is a pause. Vincent looks crestfallen. Or possibly elated. Or gassy.
ARI: Hey, I’m kidding, Vinnie. You want it, you got it. Fuck that queer tap-dancing recital!
VINCENT: Seriously? Ari, you’re the best!
ARI: I know I am, baby. Now let’s hug it out, bitch. This is your comeback!
They hug, pounding each other on the back to broadcast the fact that in no way are they deriving sexual pleasure from this male-on-male contact.
Eric enters from the right. The audience is immediately irritated, though they can’t really articulate why. Just something about his face.
ERIC (holding one hand over his phone): Guys, guess what? Sloan’s pregnant!
DRAMA (holding one hand over his crotch): Ohhhhh! E.’s little guys can swim!
TURTLE (holding one hand over his bong): Man, I didn’t even know he’d hit puberty yet!
ERIC: Nice, Turtle.
VINCENT: Guys, you know what this means: We’re gonna have a great summer!
ERIC: A great summer!
TURTLE: A great summer!
ARI: A great cocksucking summer!
DRAMA: A great summer, baby bro! Victoryyyyy!
They all hold up Dos XX bottles, then clink them in a celebratory toast. A Kanye West song begins playing on the soundtrack. Fade out into black, howling nothingness.