For the third in the series, Soderbergh slumps. Eleven was grand fun, and Twelve, even, too. George Cloony I love; Brad Pitt, too, though less these days. I have no problem with slick, with commercial, with glitz, or with solipsism, even. But Ocean's Thirteen just, well, is a sloucher. It's not unlike the pretty girl you're admiring ahead of you in line at the coffee shop, until she can't figure out what she wants to order, can't find her wallet, and takes a cell phone call while she's trying to do both, narrating her situation to the person at the other end of the line.
That is, it's shallow, but worse: it's hollow. A shallow pool can cast beautiful reflections on its surface, and be appreciated, if only for that. An empty pool is useless, unless you have a skateboard. This movie was so disappointing that I put off writing about it for an entire week, setting a new record.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment