Is it okay if I post my review of Doug Ellin‘s Entourage (Warner Bros., 6.3) tomorrow morning? It’s a total throwaway — a theatrical release that behaves like an Entourage episode with a few more boobs and famous-face cameos. Obviously nobody cared when they made it. Well, they wanted the film to make money, of course, but there’s so much in this thing that feels surface-skimmy and smug and lightweight. I didn’t hate it but it’s lazy and diddly and too delighted with material abundance, and I have no room in my life for a movie that can’t be bothered to sweat out the difficulty of being good or at least interesting. At no time was I under the impression that anyone involved in the making had sweated or given any kind of serious thought to anything. I just sat there with my luggage in the row ahead of me (I’d come right from JFK on the A train — 50 minutes from Howard Beach to 8th Avenue and 34th Street) and waited for it to end. The boobs are healthy and bouncy like only early 20something boobs can be, but they didn’t do anything for me because their carriers (i.e., the women) lacked intrigue and complexity…sorry. Hooray for Ellin and producer Mark Wahlberg and Adrian Grenier and the other cast members making more dough off this thing, and to everyone else who collected a nice paycheck during production or in post. I’ll get into it a bit more tomorrow morning. My flight to Los Angeles leaves in the late afternoon so there’s plenty of time.