Ocean's Thirteen: Review

The Ocean's Eleven, Twelve and now Thirteen franchise has never been about anything other than breezy, star studded fun, which is why the second installment was such an overwhelming disappointment and ultimately why the third and presumably final chapter is not. If Eleven was a welcome blast of goofy fun when it was released in late 2001, Twelve was an overloaded bore and Thirteen is a return to form for Soderbergh and his band of superstars, a fast moving piece of shameless entertainment. Filled with beautiful people doing nothing other than oozing charisma, Soderbergh wisely dresses his blockbuster to the nines, adding a visual panache to the winding storyline that has been spit shined to a glossy finish.

Anyone going into Ocean's Thirteen looking for anything other than a good time will end up being vastly disappointed but in all fairness to the creative team behind the film, there doesn't appear to be any ambition here other than to provide that good time. Thematic concerns are non-existent, abandoned for more and more beautiful people. The three main leads, Clooney, Pitt and Damon, reprise their roles from the previous two films and Soderbergh wisely spends no time on catching up the audience on their lives. At this point, Soderbergh figures, that if you don't know about Danny, Rusty and Linus, then its time to go back and watch the first film, rather than wasting your time with the final installment.


The story here is basic. Reuben, a longtime member of Ocean's gang (played by Elliot Gould), has been screwed out of fortune when his business partner, Willie Bank (Al Pacino in his series debut) cuts him out of their new joint casino after Reuben has done all the financial heavy lifting. Ocean demands Bank bring Reuben back in. Bank refuses. Ocean robs Bank blind. Thats about it. It is a predictable, tried and true narrative that starts and ends exactly how the audience thinks it will. But the overall arc here, the what, who, when and where, isn't the selling point, its the how that gives the series its zing and this chapter does not disappoint. It zigs and zags around the screen culminating in the final heist, which a good friend pointed out wasn't a heist, just more of someone hosing someone else. Despite that, the film never feels negative as Soderbergh and his cast keep the vibe weightless. Even the Mexican workers strike is handled with a comic confidence by Casey Affleck and Scott Caan and winds up as the best side story of the plot, adding a earthy wackiness to the slick, artificiality of Vegas.

Most of the cast returns to reprise their roles with Catherine Zeta Jones and Julia Roberts the only two who are absent. However, Soderbergh deftly handles their absence with a quick one liner that effectively removes them from the audiences memory. In that lies the film's true gift: its ability to simply make you forget about life, about reason or logic for an hour and 40 minutes (all of which are smartly paced), allowing you to sit back and enjoy the ride. Clooney is his usual affable, assured self, all classical Hollywood star power without the filter. For all intensive purposes, Clooney is the best thing mainstream filmmaking has going for it, a guy who knows how to have a good time but is unafraid of brave, interesting projects. Over the past 5 years or so, Clooney has matured from the TV hunk America loved to the cinematic power that has retained popular opinion while branching out and securing support from even chilliest of film circles. Pacino, the newest and biggest addition, is wonderful here, keeping his sometime overacting under wraps in favor of collected coolness that perfectly suits his sleazy character. The final confrontation between Ocean and Bank is as quick witted and charismatic as one could want as they watch two of our biggest stars have some fun under the red lights of Soderbergh's visuals, all of which perfectly suit the film. They are overly flashy, a visual metaphor for Vegas' slick facade.


Ultimately, the word to best describe the film is slick and for that, it'll go down as a fitting conclusion to the glossiest trilogy in recent memory. This is the closest thing to a classical Hollywood blockbuster as we'll find today, all A-listers with a sharp script and direction but not much to say, as that'll usually come in the smaller films where the group all breaks off. No one will ever confuse this film with a masterpiece of filmmaking: it doesn't have anything to say. But in terms of a summer blockbuster, one can't ask for much more from this type of star studded feature. It isn't bloated, it doesn't take itself seriously and it seems like everyone had fun. Now that its out of the way, lets get everyone back together with something more substantial in mind and then, we might have something huge. After all, isn't watching the Super Bowl, where the best of the best play for something, better than watching the Pro Bowl, where its the best of the best play for nothing? The second option can be amusing enough, allowing time to pass by but it only leaves you longing for the real thing.

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