Before the Hallmark store canned my ass for
what they called stealing (which is, coincidentally, what I'd
call it too), I couldn't get a camera crew to come in and film
me when I was pretending to hump the "I Hate Mondays" Garfields,
even though it was pretty damn funny. All I got was dirty looks
from the ladies there, and a behavior demerit for my personnel
file. If George Clooney did it, though, they'd give him twenty
million bucks and he'd probably win a People's Choice Award. How
the hell is that fair?
the most part, paying to see Ocean's Twelve is the same
as giving swell-toothed Hollywood dullards your paycheck in exchange
for watching them go on vacation. And here we are at an expensive
Italian villa, sitting on our asses. Oh, and this is us playing
poker . They look like they're having a good time, so why
the hell do we have to pay for it?
to the assholes in Ocean's Twelve when they promote this
underwhelming turd and they blather on about what good friends
they are and how much fun they had making the movie. I sort of
understand Director Steven Soderbergh getting all caught up in
that shit; he's an ugly dork, and now all the sudden the cool
kids are paying attention to him. So, peer pressure dictates that
he lets Matt Damon, Brad Pitt, Clooney and Julia Roberts leave
their boot imprints all over his back. But it's pure Hollywood
hubris for these overpaid assholes to think that us little people
give a rat's ass whether they had a good time doing their job.
I doubt they ever wonder whether the Malaysians are having a blast
stitching the tongues into their sneakers. I'd much rather they
had a miserable time and made a good movie. Hell, I'd much rather
they just have a miserable time.
all, nobody making millions of dollars should like what he does
(except maybe Vladimir Guerrero). That pay level should be reserved
for the guys mopping out booths at porno stores and the nurses
who sedate the speed addicts who just shot themselves in the face.
Hollywood celebrities should get minimum plus tips, and only then
should they be allowed to piss and moan about having to be on
set at five in the morning or working late hours. Fuck it, by
five a.m., my wife's been sorting buttons at Hancock Fabric for
two hours, and I have yet to see Leeza Gibbons commiserate with
start Ocean's Twelve, we are tediously introduced to the
gang, one by one, in elongated scenes. Well, I think we meet about
six this way and then the movie abandons the gag and just gives
the remainders brief intros. Thank God. It sets the tone for the
movie, though; it is about the actors acting cool, not about the
there's no compelling plot or story to Ocean's Twelve.
All we have is a contrived, ridiculous and wholly boring caper
about competing master thieves trying to steal a Faberge egg.
The movie begins with George Clooney reconvening his gang of burglars
to repay the money they stole from a casino owner in the far more
thought-out Ocean's Eleven. Why they have to repay him
is pretty fucking stupid in itself. Apparently he tracked them
down and all these brilliant crooks crapped their pants in fear
as soon as he greeted them.
it turns out, this is all a set up for a master thief with a name
straight out of bad mid-80s NBC espionage shows; "Nightfox." The
Nightfox--who, sadly, cannot transform into animals and doesn't
have a talking car--takes exception to Clooney and his band being
called the best thieves in the world, so he challenges them to
steal a jewel-encrusted Faberge egg before he does. The movie
spirals into the shithole of improbability, lifted ideas and nonsense
after that. It becomes a series of vignettes designed much more
to make the actors look cool and pretty than to tell a story.
Julia Roberts plays a woman who has to pose as Julia Roberts.
Ha ha. Clooney has to "pretend" he's vain about his looks. Pitt
has lots of clenched jaws "Look at me! I'm Cool Hand Luke!" moments.
And Catherine Zeta-Jones struts around as easily the hottest and
weakest-willed Interpol detective ever to wear a tight leather
jacket. It's a lot of preening by too many actors vying for screentime
against pretty settings like Lake Como, Italy and Amsterdam. Beyond
the preening, though, it's mostly shitty moviemaking. Hell, anyone
with enough money can shoot in pretty locales. It's brains and
labor that make something happen once you get there, both of which
this movie conserves like cigarettes in a gulag.
Ocean's Twelve never makes clear is why half the people
in the Twelve are even there. They hover around the periphery,
but they don't have a God damned thing to do. In the first flick,
each had a specific skill that was needed to pull off the con.
In this one, nobody has a special skill. They just do whatever
looks pretty. The fun of the caper movie is cracking it open like
a watch and seeing all the ticking parts. But because the actors
and writers wanted to have the cocktail hour early, they skimp
on details and logic. Instead, when you crack open this thing,
all you get are busted pieces that don't fit together and don't
work. Sort of like that Rolex I once bought from a suitcase on
9th Avenue in New York.
Ocean's Twelve tries very hard to give off the vibe that
the stars are screwing around, taking it easy, and cracking each
other up with their tired, vain attempts at humor. Some shots
end with an actor trying to unprofessionally stifle a laugh because,
I guess, that's just quality filmmaking. That's the shit I love
paying nine dollars I didn't even earn to see. God damn, I'd pay
ten to watch them shit, and eleven to see them brush their teeth.
so these asshole actors seem to believe. And why the fuck should
we pay for tickets and reinforce that belief? Why dshould we let
them off the hook just because they're famous? These aren't great
people; they're actors who mug us with a smile and wink. Kick
'em in the nuts for mugging us, and take a bat to their teeth
for smiling while doing it.
Fingers for Ocean's Twelve. It's a con all right. Just
not the one you're expecting.
Filthy || Want to tell Filthy