(out of four)
By David N. Butterworth
What on earth happened here?
Director Steven Soderbergh: Hot. Coming off not one but two Oscar®
nominations (for Traffic and Erin Brockovich; he won for the
former). George Clooney: Hot. Typically charming; hot off Spy Kids. Brad
Pitt: Hot. Typically charming; hot off Spy Game. Julia Roberts: Hot.
Typically gorgeous. “America’s Sweetheart.” Hot off just about everything.
A remake of a bad Rat Pack feature from the ‘60s–finally someone remakes a
bad picture for a change (it sure beats trying to redo Psycho). A glitzy,
well-populated caper film about a plot to rob not one but three Las Vegas
casinos (The Bellagio, The Mirage, The MGM Grand).
So why, then, is Ocean’s Eleven such a cold, listless affair?
Well for one thing there’s a fine line between charm
and smarm. Soderbergh’s film never once crosses that line: it remains rooted
in self-conscious smarminess from its opening scene–incarcerated felon Danny
Ocean (Clooney) is about to be released from prison and is asked a few questions
about how he plans to go straight. (Like the film, Ocean doesn’t have a whole
lot of ideas.) Clooney mugs, Soderbergh lets him, and even before the
ex-jailbird gets a good whiff of that North Jersey air he’s already hatching a
scam to knock off the afore-mentioned casinos. Danny O quickly hooks up with his
old criminal associate Dusty Ryan (Pitt) and they start pulling a team together.
The team–way too many people if you ask me–includes your standard munitions
expert, your standard computer geek, and your not-so-standard double-jointed
Asian acrobat (for hiding in large drums and avoiding floors).
The rest of the crew are not as easily definable and this is, in large part,
the film’s biggest flaw. We’re never given a chance to get to know any of
these characters for more than eleven seconds a piece so caring about them all
seems rather futile in the end.
The second problem with Ocean’s Eleven is that it’s jaw-droppingly
boring. There’s no suspense, and no explanation for any of the “mastery”
that transpires. We’re told how impenetrable the vault beneath the Bellagio
truly is, how there are all those secret computer access codes and fingerprint
recognition access panels and infra-red security beams, etc., etc., and before
you know it Ocean’s gang (which also includes Elliot Gould with some pretty
serious chest hair, Don Cheadle with a horrendous English accent, Casey Affleck,
Scott Caan, Bernie Mac, and director Carl Reiner) are already in the basement
stashing hundreds like there’s no tomorrow. Soderbergh hasn’t updated
anything here; it’s the same old switch-the-surveillance-tape-footage gimmick
we’ve seen eleven thousand times before.
Julia Roberts, by the way, plays Ocean’s ex-wife, briefly, now shacked up
with Harry Benedict the owner of The Bellagio, The Mirage, and The MGM Grand
(Benedict is played with equal parts charm and smarm by Andy Garcia). Ocean
wants Tess back, but she isn’t having any of it. Initially. That’s what the
heist is all about, of course, but since there’s also little chemistry between
the two leads, the audience is once again reduced to more yawning and head
scratching.
Still, Ocean’s Eleven has piqued my interest in Lewis Milestone’s
original film (which starred Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr.
among others), even though I’ve heard it rumored to be a lifeless dud. If that’s
an accurate statement, then Steven Soderbergh, for all his recent Hollywood
backslappings, appears to have succeeded in making the most faithful remake of
all time.
