Well – at least they’re back in Vegas.
In a fashionable but humorless return, George Clooney and crew take on a nasty, one-dimensional casino developer (Al Pacino) who double-crosses their pal Reuben (Eliot Gould). Plenty of cons and sleights of hand ensue, but director Stephen Soderbergh has lost the formula that made Ocean’s Eleven such a great film; it was uber hip and enormously clever. Like Twelve before it, Thirteen looks slick as all git out, but it’s lousy fun. I might have laughed once.
In the film’s defense, I couldn’t understand much of what was said; we’re routinely treated to barely audible dialogue, an affliction that also plagued Ocean’s Twelve. Equally distracting, Don Cheadle tones back Basher’s accent while Eliot Gould appears to have gained one, wit dis and dat and da ting over dere. What is that?
Visually, the film pops. Soderbergh and his cinematographer light and frame every shot to painstakingly cool perfection, layering oranges, blues and yellows across the screen as if it were a canvas and each scene a still life.
But the franchise looks weary. The Clooney/Pitt back-and-forth is tired at best, Matt Damon’s character has gone from plucky bench player to pouting brat, and save for a bit in which they pose as security guards to evict a hotel guest, the Malloy Brothers are disappointingly unamusing. Al Pacino walks off with this movie in his pocket, which is no small feat given the collection of talent.
Hopefully we’re done with the Oceans for awhile; each lackluster sequel leaves me thinking woulda, coulda, shoulda. C-.