Film

The unflagging zip of the Ocean’s trilogy is enough to create faith in the notion of film set as block party. This time around, after real-estate tycoon Willy Bank (Pacino) cheats Ocean associate Reuben (Elliott Gould) with an offer he can’t refuse, Danny (Clooney), Rusty (Pitt), Linus (Damon), Basher (Cheadle), Saul (Reiner) et al. plan to cash in on the grand opening of Bank’s mouth-wateringly swank, triple-helix–shaped Vegas hotel.

Back when Jules Dassin made Rififi (1955), all it took was a fire extinguisher, an umbrella and a bag of sand; the scam in Ocean’s Thirteen somehow comes to involve a fake earthquake, the recruitment of original Ocean victim Terry Benedict (Garcia), Linus’s sex-panther seduction of Bank’s assistant (Barkin) and a labor protest at a Mexican dice factory.

All in a day’s work. Soderbergh makes so many movies, his schedule must resemble these heists. At first, the jumpy chronology that enlivened Ocean’s Twelve merely seems like disorganization, but Thirteen quickly settles into a comfortable groove. The cast’s collective suave only grows stronger with each installment, despite the absence of Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones (written off in a single line), and even if new-to-the-game Pacino—on leathery, va-va-vooming autopilot—is clearly due for a Razzie.

Being as the movie has no goal other than to make beautiful, wealthy people look beautiful, wealthy and cool (providing some entertainment in the process), it’s hard to see how the supersized Ocean’s Thirteen steers wrong. It’s the first installment that looks like it cost more than the gang steals.