The Ocean's movies are beginning to feel like the Cingular ads in which folks need a phone that works in Philaware, Pragacago. I mean, who are the stars here? "Cloopitt Damdon Affcaan El Reinpac," for one.
For the first time in the Ocean's saga, Clooney sports a tummy in his tux—which Pitt jokingly references—and Pitt's neck is starting to look a little wrinkly. Otherwise, the Elevens and Twelves are all back (minus "JulZeta"), and this time they've enlisted arch nemesis Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia) to get revenge on back-stabbing hotel tycoon Willie Bank (Al Pacino).
It's all well and good that movie stars assemble and flaunt the fun they have while shooting a film, but the Ocean's movies take on-screen Hollywood hobknobbing to a new level. Notable bit players this round are Oprah Winfrey, Bob Einstein (of Super Dave Osborne fame) and Ellen Barkin. Still, Steven Soderbergh, director of all three installments, manages to make these ridiculously over-casted heist films clever and fun.
The films aren't his finest work. The first two, however, offered fun sleight-of-hand gags—ideal since they're set in Vegas—ridiculously elaborate and colorful sets and nifty scripts; and part three follows suit perfectly.
If you can get over the fact you're supporting George Clooney collecting $15 million (you read that correctly) for goofing off with his buddies, and you were a fan of Eleven and Twelve, then by all means, take a gamble on Thirteen. The most you can lose is two hours and a few bucks.