©2008 Big Empire Industries and Randy Shandis Enterprises
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This week:
Ocean's 13

Filthy says:
"Shit that's cool to the touch."

Ocean's 13 is a boring-ass movie. I think it's great that these Hollywood celebrities have embraced their stardom, and feel comfortable thinking they're cool. But, Jesus Fucking Christ, don't they make enough money already to indulge their egos in private? Why do we have to pay extra just to see them capture how cool they think they are on film? And why is their idea of cool about one-step classier than a Zody's circular?

Fuckhacks. The whole mess of them. Maybe George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Steven Soderbergh, et al, think it's in keeping with the original Frank-Sinatra Ocean's 11 to deliver a shitty, overlong, self-congratulatory heap of elephant ass. Three fucking times. Maybe the goal of George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Steven Soderbergh is to show the old school that the new school can be just as self-absorbed and self-impressed. If I had to eat lunch with any of these asshole sI would kick him in the balls under the table just on the basis of smugness.

Because the cast of this piece of shit have been all over TV and magazines, I heard one of them say they call Ocean's 13 "The One We Should Have Made Last Time. That statement is 1) a disingenuous apology for the pile of horseshit they shoveled down or throats a couple of years ago, and 2) a piece of carefully-crafted sloganeering to try to sucker people into going back after getting burned last time. First, if they really thought the last one was so shitty they could have done a couple of things, like give us our money back, or stop making them. I mean, a scientist that kills a million people by accident wouldn't have the balls to say, "wait, wait, pay me some more money and let me try again." But Hollywood grassfuckers and screenhumpers do. They mostly have more ego and balls than talent or concern about actually entertaining us. Of more importance is getting us to pay.

The nominal plot of Ocean's 13 has, of course, something to do with ripping off a giant casino. This time it's Al Pacino's joint. He's hamming it up as the owner of some weird-ass-looking spiraling tower hotel that is supposed to the be the next mega-luxurious resort. It's like the Wynn, I guess, but with more tassels and even more phony assholes. To get the hotel, Pacino had to screw Eliott Gould, who is one of the extended Ocean family. Through some contortions known only to Cirque du Soleil and shitty Hollywood writers, Clooney, Pitt and the rest decide they have to bring down the hotel by rigging every game in the casino in order to make Gould whole.

Eddie Izzard is brought in briefly and pointlessly, as is a giant tunnel-digging machine and a lot of other pseudoaccurate bullshit. There's a sweaty guy who rigs card machines; a worthless cameo by the Chinese acrobat that leads nowhere; a brutally unfunny and relatively racist sequence where Casey Affleck leads a work strike in Mexico; and a tiresome bit with David Paymer as a whiny bitch of a hotel critic.

And that's the good stuff. The rest is a tiresome slog through people explaining how they are going to rig each game. The explanations are too detailed for people who don't give a shit about Vegas games, and not detailed or correct enough for people who do. Instead, the scenes are just long, free of tension, but very stylish. Every now and then, a bogus plot conflict arises, likje a broken tunnel-digger and a floor that is too think. Oh, my God! What thrills! eight inches of concrete! These obstacles they are all as easily put down as quickly as an Irish strike. In between detailed scenes about the inner-working of a slot machine are shots of Clooney and Pitt standing around like they're fucking cool. Far as I know, no cool people stand around knowing their cool. The people who do that are the same assholes who say "Europe is so much better", and who stiff hotel maids but tip to have their overpriced car valet parked where everyone can see it.

The con is to let every player in the casino be a big winner. That will break Pacino, and force him to lose his mega-hotel. The plan goes off without a hitch. Whoop de fucking doo. There is some extracurricular horseshit that means nothing and adds nothing, such as Matt Damon trying to seduce Ellen Barkin so he can steal a bunch of diamonds located in a tower-top room. That story isn't interesting, and it becomes pointless when their method of stealing them does not in any way require the seduction, or tricking her into taking him into the room where they're located. It's a perfect example of how much stylish bullshit this movie packs in. Most flicks try to pack twenty pounds of bullshit into a ten-pound sack. The difference with Ocean's 13 is it tries to pack the same bullshit into a Vera Wang ten-pound bag. La de crapping da.

Two Fingers for Ocean's 13. I can't wait for Ocean's 14: The One We Should Have Made the Last Two Times. These pricks will be really proud of that one.



Sara Edwards of the Comcast Network

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Filthy's Reading
The New Yorker

Listening to
Talking Heads - Little Creatures


Stop Making Sense