Entourage, Season One

First, one thing: I have not seen a single episode of Entourage beyond its first season (although that will change starting next week) and know little about what's coming, so this overview comes to you completely sans hindsight. From what I've heard Entourage improves a lot in its second and third seasons - but I'm only here to examine the first.

At eight episodes, this season is surprisingly short - which is a shame, since it's only in the last few episodes that it really starts to hit its stride. The pilot, "Entourage", is a mixed bag. It's a bit too slow and feels bloated. It has too much Turtle (easily the show's weakest character) and not enough Ari (more on that later). It's not very funny. However, it does suceed in laying out its simple yet enticing premise. And even though it underuses its best character, you still know he's the best character - and you're positively dying to see more of him. This makes for an underwhelming episode but in some ways a good pilot.

The slow and bloated feeling takes a few episodes to fade. "The Review" is an improvement, and cements the Vincent character as vain and easily deflated just as he should be. It may seem obvious, but I remain impressed that the show avoided the urge to make him more sympathetic and likeable. (Adrien Grenier is a naturally huggable actor anyway, so a bit of likeability seeps through the cracks.) "Talk Show" is the show's first successful leap into its 'backstage access' side, and it's a welcome one. Lets face it, Entourage isn't the kind of show that can rely solely on the strength of its lead characters. So instead we run into Luke Wilson, Sarah Silverman, Sara Foster and of course Jimmy Kimmel. Vince's romantic encouter with Foster is great stuff, mainly because it's so easy to believe that this could really happen in Hollywood.

"Date Night" is a somewhat forgettable episode, but the worries over Head On's box office success will appeal to any movie geek versed in such matters (such as myself). "The Script and the Sherpa" is when things really start looking up, with both the introduction of new script Queen's Boulevard and a hilarious cameo from Val Kilmer as a guru who supplies Vince and his crew with some much desired marijuna. His beard alone is pure genius.

Thankfully, from hereon in I can stop bitching. The last three episodes are fantastic, each one equally entertaining and packed with great one-liners and back and forths. The finale especially ("New York") is all the proof anyone should need of Entourage's long-running pedigree. Although the show's attempts at drama can feel forced, it is saved by the great chemistry between every member of its ensemble. No matter who it throws together, Entourage always works (the only combination I can't imagine is Ari and Turtle), a strength that even some all-time classic sitcoms never posessed. And the most effective dynamics - Vince and Eric, Eric and Ari - are reason enough to keep tuning in.

There are and always will be certain inherent flaws in Entourage. None of the characters are particularly likeable, and only Ari and (sometimes) Eric are truly compelling. Sadly, unless it were to undergo a full-on revamp, the show's structure will never allow as much Ari as viewers are dying for. This is especially true in season one; there's just never enough Ari to satisfy. In episodes where we 'enjoy' several testosterone pumped exchanges between Drama and Turtle but only one Ari-centric scene, it can get frustrating.

But hey, you get what you signed on for. Entourage isn't for everyone, but those who enjoy it will enjoy it every time, even in its lesser weeks. Still, if you ever feel your faith in emotional, engrossing or tightly scripted television slipping, be sure to put in a DVD of something really good. Something quality. Galactica, Veronica Mars, How I Met Your Mother...whatever keeps you sane.

Time to get personal

So, now that I'm really trying to take this blog somewhere, I suppose it's time I ditched the very serious tone and just said 'Hello'. Blogs generally work better when the writer has at least a smidgen of personality, and writing about film in a very professional manner is only really suitable when you're an actual professional. What I'm doing is more testing the waters, and putting a little more effort into an underdeveloped interest. If you want an example of doing this well, look no further than South Dakota Dark, 'owned' by the mutli-talented Todd VanDerWerff. (Incidentally, one of the contributors there is David Sims, who aside from television criticism sometimes fills the role of brother, to me.)

Recently, in my blogging research, I've come across some truly interesting writers with geniunely interesting stuff to say. Everyone's aim when writing, even in the most casual of ways, is to find a voice; and although there's not exactly an abudance of great ones on the 'net, there's a fair few. So I somehow feel obligated to say that I have no great confidence that I do know what I'm talking about. Film, theatre, TV, life...few can accurately and succinctly sum up such arts in a handfull of paragraphs. All I know is, I'm interested. And so long as I have a geniune interest in writing and a desire to improve, who's to stop me? Like I say, I'm testing the waters, and they feel somewhat inviting.

Up next, then, is an overview of the first season of Entourage. A Marie Antoinette review should follow, and an analysis of A Good Year (opening early here in the UK, although those reviews effectively deny me any bragging rights) may also pop up if I can find anyone interested in seeing it. I'm also considering reviews of (when I see them) The Departed, The Prestige and Borat. Basically I'll go with whatever I feel like. Whatever distracts me from my mountains of work is thumbs up material on my end.

"Very odd, what happens in a world without children's voices."

It's 2027, and women can no longer make babies. Bummer, right? With Children of Men, Alfonso Cuaron and his fellow screenwriters, shockingly, don't bother to take examine the positive effects something like that might bring. Instead, Cuaron brings us an almost overbearingly dark and depressing tale about heartbreak, loss and terrorism.

As the film opens, the death of Deigo Ricardo, the youngest man on the planet (18 years old) has sent shockwaves through London. As most of the population breaks out the hankies, Theodore (a wonderfully low-key Clive Owen) drifts through the mourning crowds at a coffee shop with barely a glance at the TV screen. Even when the shop suddenly explodes after he leaves, all he can express later is annoyance that his ears are still ringing. It's an obvious but still effective way of showing that the people of Britain have become used to the chaos erupting around them.

To its credit, Children of Men never feels like the fantasy film it undeniably is. This is partly thanks to the well-measured and believable world the film creates (having lived here for years, it always surprises me how well London photographs as an apocalyptic wasteland); but it's largely down to Owen, who sells every scene and lends the film a much needed dose of humanity.

Owen is what really makes Men work. His Theo is a refreshing hero, in that he's not really a 'hero' at all. He has no real love interest, isn't all that likeable, and at times seems annoyingly ignorant and narrow-minded. But like all great heroes, when the time comes he always does the right thing. Theo's revolutionary past is re-awakened upon meeting Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey) who, against all the odds, is pregnant. He joins forces with freedom fighter ex-wife Julian (Julianne Moore) and her colleagues, but events soon conspire to send him and Kee on the run with only each other to rely on.

The cast includes a vast array of British vets and newbies (Michael Caine, Chiwetel Ejiofer, Charlie Hunnam, Peter Mullan) none of whom fail to impress. Ejiofer especially continues to prove himself as one of the most talented breakout stars of the last five years. His presence is commanding and his final line heartbreaking. It's a travesty that he hasn't had a decent leading role since Dirty Pretty Things.

As Men proceeds, it only gets more gripping. Despite its flaws it truly sucked me in - as a thriller you'll find little better among the 2006 offerings thus far. Initially the film's complete lack of hesitance at killing off major characters in shocking eruptions of violence made it more engaging than it really had any right to be. After a while this shock tactic actually became a little tiresome (although still effective) but Men remains engaging to the end mostly due to the endearing character at its centre, and the adept handling of major dramatic sequences. Cuaron and cinematographer Emmabuel Lubezki (the man behind The New World) stage several sequences with a powerful usage of one take shots. Whether we're following Theo through a war torn building under seige by the army or watching him deliver a baby, the work behind it is astonishing on reflection.

Still, as you may have guessed, Children of Men is no five star film. The death, despair and depression soon reaches almost farcical levels. It's simply too much. Most of the characters have depressing backstories which, whether explicitly stated or only hinted at, collectively give every scene a kind of morbid lonliness which becomes overbearing. Only Owen carries off his dark past without becoming stereotypical at all. But I should note (again) that the performances are very accomplished. The great talent involved is simply let down by slightly lazy screenwriting. Here's hoping that Cuaron's next effort will be just as entertaining, but not quite as by-the-numbers.

London theatre tidbits

Frost Nixon, by Peter Morgan (Donmar Warehouse)


Man of the moment Peter Morgan (who wrote The Queen and The Last King of Scotland) has triumphed yet again. Frost Nixon is based on David Frost's dramatic TV interviews of Richard Nixon following the Watergate scandal and his subsequent resignation. Would Frost be able to elicit an apology from one of America's most notorious crooks? The premise is perfect pedigree for a play, and Morgan does it justice primarily by approaching this dramatic event in history with a wonderful sense of humor and panache, not to mention a willingness to add his own little details to the event.

Frost and Nixon are played by Michael Sheen and Frank Langella respectively, who portray both figures with charm and nuance. Langella's drawling, over-confident Nixon is an especial delight to watch, and the play truly comes to life whenever the two characters are thrown together. In one scene, Nixon calls Frost late at night and and rambles drunkenly about everything from cheeseburgers, to Watergate, to his own true feelings. It's an oddly revealing scene that manages to be more pentrating of the Nixon character than even the final interview, when Nixon's emotional apology pours out.

The play was staged with a large TV screen behind and above the stage, which (although it was only used interview sections) was perhaps a little unessecary as it was hard to pick which perspective to watch from. Nonetheless it gave a greater appreciation of the two lead's impressive embodiments. As with The Queen (and hopefully Scotland too) Morgan's personal perspectives on history and power continue to prove both fascinating and entertaining.

A Moon For the Misbegotten, by Eugene O'Neill (Old Vic)

Since he became artistic director of the Old Vic in 2004, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone truly impressed by Kevin Spacey's output. Cloaca was largely panned by the critics. National Anthems and The Philadelphia Story were met with what could be best described as indifference. And I'm sure he'd love to forget the ordeal that was Resurrection Blues, a lesser-known Arthur Miller play directed here by Robert Altman, which was met with such an overwhelmingly negative reaction (for Nicholas de Jongh of the Evening Standard, it had "all the allure of a sagging derriere") that its run ended up being cut short.

Thus, the 2006-07 season has been touted as something of a 'return to form' for the theatre after a string of bad press. The first production of this season, A Moon for the Misbegotten, has all the ingredients of something great - especially in its exceedingly talented cast (Eve Best, Colm Meany, Spacey himself). The problem, though, lies in the central themes of the play. As my overpriced programme pointed out, the play was a big deal at the time - fresh, controversial, so much so that one production was shut down by the cops. Now? I doubt London's finest have much to worry about. Moon, sadly, has lost much of its edge. The sexual issues especially (the lead character, Josie, turns out to be a virgin) evoked little emotion from me. The overlong and overly dreary second act lacked the black humour which kept the first interesting, instead focusing on the tragic past of Spacey's character, Jim Tyrone, an aspiring actor whose dreams of stardom were washed away by alcohol. As Tyrone confessed all his deepest miseries and darkest secrets to Josie, my mind drifted off. Such was my battle to try and bring myself back to Earth that I actually missed most of what Spacey was saying. Not a good sign.

Also, a note to Spacey - I'm sure there are many other people like me who like to shift around in their seats in the theatre. So if you'd rather the production's most tragic moments weren't ruined by the loud noises emitted by your theatre's seating whenever an audience member felt like shifting their weight...but that's beside the point. What's key is that despite some good moments, and strong performances from Best and Meany, Moon just couldn't hold my interest.