Behold the efficacy of properly focused star power! By assembling a truly all-star cast, auteur Steven Soderbergh was able to make a successful and well-received remake of a little-seen (and less cared for) 1960 Rat Pack lark, Ocean’s Eleven.
Which lead to a sequel.
And now a second sequel.
And like the summer’s bigger, more merchandising-friendly threequels, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to stop at three, so long as the eleven-man core of the ensemble–and most importantly the triumvirate of George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Matt Damon–continue to be game (Julia Roberts sits this one out, as does Ocean’s Twelve addition Catherine Zeta-Jones, and they’re barely missed; their stellar wattage replaced by that of Al Pacino).
Soderbergh is joined by a new script-writing team, Rounders‘s Brian Koppelman and David Levien, for a more straightforward plot, which brings the eleven back to Vegas and looking for enough recruits to make the title mandated baker’s dozen.
When Eleven-member Elliot Gold becomes partners with Nevada real estate magnate Willy Bank (a tanned, auburn haired and less-than-reserved Al Pacino) to open a new casino, he finds himself forced out under threat of violence, a shock that causes a heart attack and puts him on his deathbed.
In an effort to rally his health–and exact some revenge–Ocean’s gang decide to dismantle Bank’s casino by causing him to lose big enough on opening night that he’s forced out by his board of directors.
The scheme is “a reverse Big Store,” Clooney’s Ocean explains, “It doesn’t matter if we win, as long as the casino loses.” To do that, they have to rig every single game in the casino pretty much simultaneously, in addition to sabotaging various other elements of Bank’s operation, all while also stealing a room full of diamonds. Complicating matters is the fact that Bank has an artificially intelligent security computer capable of monitoring every element of the operation, one that can only be shut down by an act of God–and even then only for three minutes.
The question of whether the eleven-turned-thirteen can pull it off or not isn’t really a source of narrative tension; it’s watching them to see how they do it. Or, to be more precise, it’s watching Soderbergh and his cast tell us how they do it.
The chief pleasure of the Ocean trilogy is merely watching a combination of beautiful Hollywood royalty and gifted character actors alternately lolling about beautiful sets in cool clothes and getting too-short showcase scenes. At times it seems not only excessive, but laughably excessive, as, for example, the scene during which Ocean asks Eddie Izzard’s Roman Nagel for advice, a sequence that uses at least a half-dozen different sets.
But then, that sense of excessiveness, like the stars’ self-satisfaction, is why we’re here, isn’t it? It’s a pretty much perfect ensemble, including not only the entire Ocean gang, but also returns from Andy Garcia’s evil casino magnate and Vincent Cassel’s super-thief, and new additions Ellen Barkin (as Pacino’s lieutenant), David Paymer as a beleaguered hotel rater tied to a prestigious award, Bob Einstein as an FBI official and Julian Sands as Roman’s archrival, Greco.
Ocean’s Thirteen, like the preceding films, is another precious gem–shiny, sparkly, expensive-looking, and nice to look at, if ultimately meaningless.
Not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that. Prioritizing style over substance is only a negative when the style itself ugly, unappealing or improperly conveyed. And, at this point, is there any question regarding Soderbergh, Clooney and their gang’s sense of style, and their ability to sell it?