Ocean's Twelve: Movie & DVD Review (2004)

(Originally published 2004)

Steven Soderbergh's “Ocean’s Twelve,” a sequel to 2001’s superior “Ocean’s Eleven,” is a self-conscious, self-indulgent heist movie you watch from the sidelines, looking in at all the A-list celebrities having a grand time being A-list celebrities while you yourself are stuck having a C- time.

It’s plot has the distinction of being tertiary to everything else onscreen. It’s weak and convoluted, with a numbing effect that’s isolating.

As directed by Soderbergh from a script by George Nolfi, this is fraternity filmmaking that features mainstream actors snubbing their noses at mainstream moviemaking in a film ironically targeted for the mainstream. Go figure.

It’s a big slumber party in Europe for them, a colossal bore in the States for us.

Since the plot’s many intricacies don’t matter--if they did, the movie would really be in trouble—we’ll glaze over them: Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), owner of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, wants to reclaim from Danny Ocean (George Clooney) and his thieves (Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, Elliott Gould, Carl Reiner among them) the $160 million they stole from him in the last film.

Instead of going deeper into hiding or putting up a fight, as the Ocean’s 11 from the first film would have done, this Ocean and company inexplicably decide to pay Terry back. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but there they are, plotting to steal other artifacts around the globe in an effort to get Terry back his cash—along with interest. It’s up to Catherine Zeta-Jones as one of the most expensively well-dressed detectives in history to put an end to it all.

The movie isn’t without its pleasures—there’s a twist involving Julia Roberts as Danny’s girlfriend, Tess, that’s unexpected and fun, two unbilled cameos that do come as a surprise, and an acrobatic ballet through a sweeping minefield of laser beams that is thrilling to watch. But mostly, unnecessarily, “Ocean’s Twelve” is unabashed celebrity star gazing, with Soderbergh again trying to reignite that old Rat Pack feel with a cast that’s working overtime to be hip.

Thing is, being hip isn’t something you can manufacture. It’s more than just the clothes one wears or the ride one drives—it’s an intangible extension of personality. Either you have it or you don’t.

Sinatra had it. Martin and Davis Jr. had it. They were the real thing. But in “Ocean’s 12”? With the exception of Reiner, Gould, Bernie Mac and Cheadle—none of whom have much screen time here--it’s all playacting. You get more than two dozen personalities crowding the screen with their pseudo-hipness, and the movie, in spite of all its hip hopes, falls embarrassingly flat.

Grade: C-