Hollywood is back in threequel mode with Ocean's Thirteen.
And like this season's Spider-Man, Shrek and Pirates of the Caribbean entries, this latest foray into high-end thievery delivers all the basic pleasures its franchise is known for, yet somehow gives less satisfaction than earlier films in the series.
Essentially a remake of the first Ocean's remake, Thirteen finds the original Eleven (George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Elliott Gould, Carl Reiner, Scott Caan, Casey Affleck, Don Cheadle, Eddie Jemison, Bernie Mac and Shaobo Qin) reunited in Vegas to take down another hissable, taste-impaired casino builder, Al Pacino's Willy Bank.
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Seems Bank took advantage of Reuben Tishkoff (Gould) in a real estate deal, which gave the old swindler a stroke or something. So, to plot the perfect revenge, Danny Ocean (Clooney) gathers the boys and adds a British superschemer (Eddie Izzard) whose name is Roman, I think, but who could just as well be called Basil Exposition.
That's still only 12. I guess No. 13 is supposed to be old nemesis Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), who hates the fact that his competitor's glitzy new tower casts shadows over his own hotel's pool.
My math could be off, though. But then, so could the filmmakers'.
Numerous high- and low-tech gadgets, carefully worked-out if impossibly executed scams and a reversal or three later, everything's in place to ruin the grand opening of Bank's ultra-luxurious, super-extra-vulgar Strip hotel — which is modestly and oh so originally named Bank.
The film's plotting is complicated without being too hard to follow (thanks, Basil, or whoever you are). More to the point, it's not worth concerning oneself about.
Writers Brian Koppelman and David Levien, who scripted the more serious Damon gambling drama Rounders, play about an even-money humor game. Half the jokes are lame, like Ellen Barkin, as Bank's businesslike right-hand woman, getting all discombobulated by an aphrodisiac, or poor David Paymer being the guest the Eleven single out for special torture. But another half is mildly inspired; both the Oprah bit and the Mexican factory story line pay off hilariously.
Additionally, the writers find some excuse for working Sumo wrestlers and an earthquake into the proceedings. Cool as the overall tone of the piece tries to remain, the sweat of desperation can be detected on stuff like this.
Director Steven Soderbergh, as usual, makes sure George, Brad, Matt and the villains are dressed to the nines. He also tosses in some split-screen and double-exposure sequences to remind us that he really is a film artist, dammit, and not just a guy who makes his money creating gleaming, expensive-looking surfaces all the time.
That said, the ladies should be delighted by all the well-draped man flesh. Barkin and some nameless arm-candy girls are about all the guys get to ogle this time, though. Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones are MIA this time around. As are, unfortunately, the deeply subversive touches that made Ocean's Twelve the self-satirizing critique of these all-star bashes that upset so many people.
Thirteen goes back to the basics of slick, empty entertainment. And it leaves you feeling amused yet unfulfilled, so I guess all involved should be congratulated for a job well done. Or, depending how you look at it, slapped.
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