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!