There is much joy to be had from a trip to the ocean – be it Atlantic, Pacific or even Billy.
Two year’s ago, George Clooney, Brad Pitt and company, though, gave us the cinematic equivalent to sand in our shorts with “Ocean’s Twelve,” a sloppy, self-serving in-joke that all but ruined any considerable charm its original, “Ocean’s Eleven,” had garnered.
And while the film still went on to gross a considerable amount of money, it was hard to find someone who actually liked the film. Critically, it was a polluted “Ocean.”
But director Steven Soderbergh – one of the most flexible, risk-taking lensmen working today – was not about to sit around crying about the drubbing the film received. Instead, he and the crew reunited to issue a celluloid apology in the form of a sequel.
“Ocean’s Thirteen” could actually be titled “Ocean’s Eleven Point Five” or “Ocean’s Let’s Pretend the Last One Never Existed.” Regardless of the name, the con is on, once again back in the cold comforts of Las Vegas, and all involved could not appear happier to be home after their European vacation.
The plot is simple yet impossible to follow. I will try to elaborate. Reuben (played by Elliott Gould), who was considered a patriarchical member of the group, was swindled out of millions by Willie Bank (played by Al Pacino), a skeevy little casino owner. The devastation caused him a near-fatal attack on his ticker, and pissed off his accomplices, mainly Danny Ocean (Clooney), Rusty (Pitt), Linus (played by Matt Damon) and Basher (played by Don Chealdle). The rest of the film is devoted to the gang exacting revenge and breaking the Bank.
In order to do this, though, takes logistical precision that would require audiences to break out their protractors and slide rules – dice must be unevenly weighted, elevators must be dodged, women seduced, factories overthrown and earth must be moved (quite literally).
After weeks of bemoaning the fact that this summer’s sequels have bitten off far more than they can chew, I must admit that the overstuffed shenanigans actually help the film. Danny and his boys meet each as a challenge, not an obstacle, which adds to their hepcat cache. They make time to joke, glide, jostle and spar while the chaotic caper is being pulled off, unfazed that their odds of success are less likely than a John McCain presidential endorsement from Clooney.
The regulars all return (Bernie Mac, Casey Affleck, Scott Caan, Carl Reiner), with Pacino and Ellen Barkin rounding out this go-round’s bakers dozen. Pacino, in a role that could have easily caused him to flip his acting switch to full-tilt “screaming” mode, opts instead for the verbal valium, where his cigarette-scarred whisper becomes much more sinister. And putting the “kick” in sidekick, Barkin makes a welcome return to the public’s eye since starring in her own very public and very nasty divorce from billionaire Rob Perelman.
Throughout it Byzantine plot, “Thirteen” pauses for a solo from each of its players on its overcrowded stage. And whether its Matt Damon’s Linus attempting to enchant Barkin’s character, Affleck’s Virgil inciting a riot as an employee at a Mexican dice-making factory, or Chealdle’s Basher impersonating a Kenievel-esque daredevil, all seem to be having an infectiously good time, it’s hard not to get swept up.
It would also be a crime not to mention the once-again swingin’ score from David Holmes who fuses the frivolity with a soundtrack that would make the original Rat Pack proud.
Though the superfluously serpentine plot of “Ocean’s Thirteen” may pretend otherwise, the film’s not interested in keeping its audience riveted with the intricate twists and turns. It’s as though director Soderbergh was attempting to recreate the glitz of Vegas on screen with his stars’ wattage and camaraderie.
Whether it’s the shiny slot-machine-smile of Brad Pitt or the line delivery of Clooney’s line delivery, smooth as blackjack table velvet, ‘Thirteen” tempts you to come join in the fun and let what happens in the theater, stay in the theater.
Two year’s ago, George Clooney, Brad Pitt and company, though, gave us the cinematic equivalent to sand in our shorts with “Ocean’s Twelve,” a sloppy, self-serving in-joke that all but ruined any considerable charm its original, “Ocean’s Eleven,” had garnered.
And while the film still went on to gross a considerable amount of money, it was hard to find someone who actually liked the film. Critically, it was a polluted “Ocean.”
But director Steven Soderbergh – one of the most flexible, risk-taking lensmen working today – was not about to sit around crying about the drubbing the film received. Instead, he and the crew reunited to issue a celluloid apology in the form of a sequel.
“Ocean’s Thirteen” could actually be titled “Ocean’s Eleven Point Five” or “Ocean’s Let’s Pretend the Last One Never Existed.” Regardless of the name, the con is on, once again back in the cold comforts of Las Vegas, and all involved could not appear happier to be home after their European vacation.
The plot is simple yet impossible to follow. I will try to elaborate. Reuben (played by Elliott Gould), who was considered a patriarchical member of the group, was swindled out of millions by Willie Bank (played by Al Pacino), a skeevy little casino owner. The devastation caused him a near-fatal attack on his ticker, and pissed off his accomplices, mainly Danny Ocean (Clooney), Rusty (Pitt), Linus (played by Matt Damon) and Basher (played by Don Chealdle). The rest of the film is devoted to the gang exacting revenge and breaking the Bank.
In order to do this, though, takes logistical precision that would require audiences to break out their protractors and slide rules – dice must be unevenly weighted, elevators must be dodged, women seduced, factories overthrown and earth must be moved (quite literally).
After weeks of bemoaning the fact that this summer’s sequels have bitten off far more than they can chew, I must admit that the overstuffed shenanigans actually help the film. Danny and his boys meet each as a challenge, not an obstacle, which adds to their hepcat cache. They make time to joke, glide, jostle and spar while the chaotic caper is being pulled off, unfazed that their odds of success are less likely than a John McCain presidential endorsement from Clooney.
The regulars all return (Bernie Mac, Casey Affleck, Scott Caan, Carl Reiner), with Pacino and Ellen Barkin rounding out this go-round’s bakers dozen. Pacino, in a role that could have easily caused him to flip his acting switch to full-tilt “screaming” mode, opts instead for the verbal valium, where his cigarette-scarred whisper becomes much more sinister. And putting the “kick” in sidekick, Barkin makes a welcome return to the public’s eye since starring in her own very public and very nasty divorce from billionaire Rob Perelman.
Throughout it Byzantine plot, “Thirteen” pauses for a solo from each of its players on its overcrowded stage. And whether its Matt Damon’s Linus attempting to enchant Barkin’s character, Affleck’s Virgil inciting a riot as an employee at a Mexican dice-making factory, or Chealdle’s Basher impersonating a Kenievel-esque daredevil, all seem to be having an infectiously good time, it’s hard not to get swept up.
It would also be a crime not to mention the once-again swingin’ score from David Holmes who fuses the frivolity with a soundtrack that would make the original Rat Pack proud.
Though the superfluously serpentine plot of “Ocean’s Thirteen” may pretend otherwise, the film’s not interested in keeping its audience riveted with the intricate twists and turns. It’s as though director Soderbergh was attempting to recreate the glitz of Vegas on screen with his stars’ wattage and camaraderie.
Whether it’s the shiny slot-machine-smile of Brad Pitt or the line delivery of Clooney’s line delivery, smooth as blackjack table velvet, ‘Thirteen” tempts you to come join in the fun and let what happens in the theater, stay in the theater.
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