Vince, Johnny D., Turtle, and E have been BFFs since grade school. They can push each other’s buttons, reminisce about old times, go for the Gold (as in Ari), and still share a breakfast of champions. Yes, they’re riding the coattails of the star with the more meteoric rise, but that doesn’t diminish their individual accomplishments. Coat the main setting in plastic, throw in a smattering of personal growth, and mix with a smidgen of conflict. Voila. Pathos.
That would be enough to hook me (I was a huge fan of Thirtysomething in the 1980s). But Entourage is much more than childhood buddies using a cutthroat agent to dodge the bullets of fame and fortune roulette. Every episode is a stroll down the red carpet, a peek at the seamier side of Rodeo Drive, a dissection of cogs in the showbiz grind. Before Entourage, I got my celebrity fix from pumped up tabloid tales and Internet fan gossip. Rancid. I devoured stories like You’ll Never Eat Lunch in this Town Again and The Devil Wears Prada. Needs salt. With Entourage, I get a heaping helping of the good, the bad, and the ugly with a simple flick of my remote. Tasty. Please, sir, I want some more.
My biggest complaint is my own Baltimore skew. It hinders any ability to separate possible reality from outright fiction. For instance, David from the gay nightclub in Dog Day Afternoon was not David Faustino (appearing in season one episode two), nor David Milch (Deadwood mega-mogul and creator of pilot episode), but rather Jim Holmes, a character actor, writer/producer. His chance romp with the flustered Pivster was hilarious. Mr. Holmes apparently avoids the limelight because he barely registers on the celebrichter scale. Must be tight with some bigwig to snag such a juicy part. Some people have all the luck.
To Doug Ellin, Mark Wahlberg, Stephen Levinson, and Rob Weiss, thank you for answering the prayers of the superficial. This gratified patron declares Entourage a delectable confection of delight. Now get back to work.