True to its title, the premise behind 24 Hours With Russell Simmons is simple: Take cheap video equipment and tag along after the famed rap impresario, recording everything he doesn't deem too important to be filmed, which turns out to be quite a bit. Hosted by a pretty, bland publicist type who lobs softball questions ("How do you manage to stay so humble?") when not marveling at the greatness of Simmons and the artists on his Def Jam label, 24 Hours is little more than shameless toadying masquerading as filmmaking. Technically primitive (terrible sound makes it a chore to figure out what anyone is saying at any given time), 24 Hours spends so much time deifying Simmons that it begins to feel like some sort of creepy corporate porn. The nadir comes about an hour in, when the filmmakers, having been denied access to Simmons' yoga class, instead travel to one of his Phat Farm clothing stores for an impromptu fashion show showcasing its many fine products. Around the same time, 24 Hours' mixture of fear and reverence for its subject ceases to be merely loathsome and becomes almost fascinating: Almost everyone who meets Simmons treats him with the exact same fear and reverence, to the point where his life begins to seem lonely and sad. Simmons is surrounded by people who desperately seek his approval, and yet his power and fame keep him strangely distant from everyone he meets. Of course, making the life of a wealthy, famous businessman look almost as eerie and alien as the party scenes in Eyes Wide Shut probably wasn't the filmmakers' intention, but it's just about the only thing that makes 24 Hours transcend pathetic celebrity worship.