Ocean’s Twelve

Reel Critic Grade: C+ Running Time: 100 minutes Rated: PG-13

Ocean’s Twelve has all the pre-hype of an A-list Hollywood party, but once there, you realize the A-list isn’t quite as hip as you’d thought. Director Stephen Soderbergh and crew deviated too far from the winning formula of Ocean’s Eleven and created a sequel that doesn’t live up to its heritage — I can faintly hear Sinatra singing the blues.

The film picks up 3½ years after Danny Ocean’s (George Clooney) crew of eleven took down the vault at the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas. They’re living the high life in various parts of the world, at least until Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), owner of the Bellagio, tracks them down and demands his $160 million back – with interest.

We never get the back story on Benedict, but Ocean and his buddies seem to know he’s a guy you don’t mess with. What’s funny is the whole sequence of Benedict confronting each member of Ocean’s team seems light and chummy, rather than dire. It didn’t put the fear of God in me and I was surprised it had that affect on the guys. I guess thieves and killers know where they belong in the food chain and lines don’t get crossed.

Anyway, Ocean’s crew reunites and tallies their remaining loot. As you might guess, it ain’t enough. So it’s off to Europe, since they’re “too hot” to work in the U.S. (and just maybe Soderbergh and the star actors wanted to play in The Mother country while filming). However, Euro-land has its own difficulties.

The gang finds themselves hounded by the sexy detective, Isabel Lahiri (Catherine Zeta-Jones), and tormented by a play-boy thief, known as the Night Fox (Vincent Cassel), who keeps stealing their scores.

With the deadline (pun intended) approaching and the gang spending more money than they’re making, Danny Ocean strikes a deal with the Night Fox to find out who’s the better thief (one of those “only in the movies” things). Toss in an unlikely romance, a rock-video soundtrack, an inside joke about super-stardom, and silly meant-to-be-emotional back story and you have a film that’s fun to look at, but with few laughs, little action and no real substance.

The script is ultimately the culprit. You’d think with three credited writers (George Clayton Johnson, Jack Golden Russell and George Nolfi) and an experienced director like Soderbergh (Ocean’s Eleven, Solaris, Traffic, Erin Brokovich), someone would have put up their hand and said, “Ya know, this isn’t working”, but, sadly, they didn’t.

Instead of having the caper(s) as the focal point, the story gets bogged down in the sub-plots and Soderbergh’s need to keep eleven, no wait, twelve actor’s story lines in play. What seemed effortless in the first film, takes work in the sequel – and it shows.

Now, don’t get me wrong — the film isn’t a complete dud. What does work is the acting. The star-studded cast helps gloss over the glaring script deficiencies by being, well, stars. Clooney, Pitt, Zeta-Jones and Damon get most of the screen time; they’re easy on the eyes, good at what they do, and seem to be having a good time (see - Europe works). I especially enjoyed Elliot Gould and his waffle-sized black-rimmed glasses.

He’s a great whiner and adds a dose of age-earned credibility to the youngish cast. Roberts, Cheadle, Garcia, Reiner, Caan, Mack and the rest do a fine job as well, but their screen time is so limited they’re hardly worth mentioning. I should also bring up European hunk, Vincent Cassel, who shows his screen cred as The Night Fox (although, his dance scene with lasers had me thinking I was suddenly watching a remake of Flashdance).

In the end, Ocean’s Twelve is a missed opportunity. With a known scheme that’s worked in the past and a cast to die for, the job should have been a walk-in-the-park. But, like so many sequels, the creators took their ear off the cold-metal of the vault door and missed the “click” that would have unlocked the riches just sitting there for the taking. The result is a film of pick-pocket pedigree, when we were expecting grand larceny.