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