Ocean’s Thirteen
With “Ocean’s Twelve,” Steven Soderbergh made a heist movie without a heist. With “Ocean’s Thirteen,” he’s made a caper movie without a single laugh. No chuckles or chortles, either. If you’re lucky, it might provoke a “Hmmmph.” Arid as the Nevada desert, “Ocean’s Thirteen” has the energy of a half smirk or a shrugged single shoulder. It almost makes “Ocean’s Twelve,” a self-absorbed and incoherent series of riffs, seem fun in retrospect. The latest “Ocean’s” movie is competent but comatose. The stars are clearly bored. Only Al Pacino, his skin as red as a hothouse tomato, appears engaged. He plays a ruthless casino magnate with the craven perfectionism of a despot.
In the late 90s and early 2000s, Soderbergh could do no wrong. He and George Clooney began their fruitful partnership with the electrifying “Out of Sight,” and they followed it up with “Ocean’s Eleven,” a shrewd and spirited commercial entertainment. Since then, they’ve made art films for themselves and “Ocean’s” sequels for the suits at Warner Brothers – and nothing for the poor saps who buy tickets. “Solaris” begat “Ocean’s Twelve,” and “Ocean’s Thirteen” comes right on the heels of the wretched “The Good German.” Misguided art films are easy to forgive – I even liked “Solaris.” But Soderbergh and Clooney aren’t professional enough to mask their disdain for franchise filmmaking, even as it makes them preposterously rich. I’ve been more entertained watching my cat bathe herself than I was watching “Ocean’s Thirteen.”
LISTEN: Oceans Thirteen