Entertainment, Movies - Army Times

‘Ocean’s Thirteen’ proves series belongs on the Strip

In “Ocean’s Thirteen,” the third film in the self-indulgent franchise spawned by George Clooney, Brad Pitt and a whole slew of their friends, the plot is just as slack, the motivations of the players just as murky, and the smirk factor just as sky-high as in “Ocean’s Twelve.”

And yet, it seems far more hip, cool and satisfying, almost equaling their first charming effort from 2001, “Ocean’s Eleven,” itself an update of the 1960 flick starring Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack.

It took me a while to figure out why. Then it hit me ... Las Vegas! “Eleven” was set in that glittering desert jewel (as was the 1960 original), but “Twelve” — the one without the fizz — had the gang cavorting in Europe (probably because Clooney has a villa in Italy where the boys could hang out during production).

But the whole premise, the entire vibe of this saga of big-time con men, thieves and raconteurs virtually screams “VEGAS!”, the place where the hopeful and the desperate rub shoulders to find or lose their dreams.

So Clooney made the smart move in coming home for “Ocean’s Thirteen,” which goes down much smoother than “Twelve” even though the basic frameworks of both films are virtually indistinguishable.

As usual, it’s all about a caper. The spark that lights the fuse is provided by Reuben (Elliot Gould), the good pal of master thieves Danny Ocean (Clooney), Rusty Ryan (Pitt) and Linus Caldwell (Matt Damon).

It seems that Reuben, eager to restake his claim to Vegas fame, had forged a partnership with high-profile hotelier Willie Bank (Al Pacino, in fine fettle) to open a new, glitzy property on the Strip. But when push comes to shove, Willie gives Reuben a shove — right out of the deal.

Reuben is so crushed that he suffers a major heart attack — and his pals vow revenge on Willie. “This is war,” says Saul (Carl Reiner). “There’s gonna be collateral damage.”

The plan, in a nutshell, is to infiltrate Bank’s casino and rig all his games so he loses half a billion on opening night, thus triggering his expulsion by the hotel’s board of directors.

And that’s about it, except for all the amusing sideshows that have come to define these films. That’s part of the whole conceit — the caper has to become exponentially more complicated until it shoots past even Rube Goldberg’s wildest dreams.

For example, at one point the boys must turn to Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), their nemesis in “Eleven,” for financial help.

What do the boys need the money for? Well, see, they’ve leased one of the two massive drills that were used to dig the Chunnel between Britain and France and are using it to burrow underground to the foundation of Bank’s hotel in order to simulate an earthquake at a particularly fortuitous moment.

Except the drill is now fried. The boys have access to the other Chunnel drill, but they can’t lease this one; they must buy it. And their bankroll is running low. So they turn to Benedict, who signs on because, conveniently enough, he absolutely despises Bank.

Now, if you’re the type of person who will obsess over how these guys could even obtain, much less transport and deploy, two massive tunnel drills on the Las Vegas Strip without anyone in a position of authority noticing or caring, then this is not your film.

Other eclectic subplots abound — a quest for a set of truly magnificent diamond necklaces; a Michelin-like hotel rater (David Paymer) who gets taken for a ride by the boys; Danny’s crewmen, the Malloy brothers (Casey Affleck and Scott Caan), invoking the spirit of Zapata to launch a labor revolt at a Mexican factory that makes die for crap games; an appearance by the Euroweenie thief who bedeviled Ocean’s crew in “Twelve” (Francois Toulour); and much more.

And at the heart of the frenzy is the easy friendship between Danny and Rusty, which is allowed to come through in brief scenes that Clooney and Pitt pull off effortlessly.

For example, here are the boys talking about women:

Rusty: “Relationships can be …”

Danny: “Sure.”

Rusty: “They can also be …”

Danny: “That’s right.”

In another scene, the two stand together at twilight, staring up at one of the gaudy monstrosities that pass for casinos in modern Las Vegas, and quietly reminisce about the old days, when Vegas was Vegas — a small, beautiful moment.

In the end, “Ocean’s Thirteen” is just as weightless as all the other high-profile films of the still-young summer season. But it’s a good weightless — bringing the party back to its Vegas roots allows Clooney, Pitt and pals to recapture much the zing that was missing from “Twelve.”

And they seem to know it, too — not for nothing does their flick repeatedly invoke the name of the city’s patron saint, St. Francis (that’s Mr. Sinatra to you, pal).

Ring-a-ding-ding, baby!

3 stars. Rated PG-13 for mild violence, adult situations. Opens June 8.