Ocean’s Twelve

Monsieur Soderbergh’s holiday with the Ocean’s Eleven crew is intelligent where its lively predecessor was just plain old clever. This may well explain the rather lukewarm critical reception, but as a film, this is rather less of a con than the polished up Rat Pack caper.
Like Eleven, the plotting isn’t exactly complicated. Andy Garcia turns up in a campy cape and cane ensemble looking for his money back from last time around, so it’s as you were for Danny Ocean’s assorted A-list crew. While the boys get to work, there’s an Out Of Sight riff between Brad Pitt and Catherine Zeta Jones as the Interpol detective hot on his gigolo tail. Also New For The Sequel is Vincent Cassell, who makes a terrific addition as a competing Gallic master criminal. Mostly though, we’re just watching movie-stars cavorting around Europe.
Can’t complain. Besides, that’s precisely the point and Mr. Soderbergh employs grainy paparazzi-style telephotography and loads the movie up with self-reflexive gags: Julia Roberts plays Tess playing Julia Roberts; her old mucker from The Player, Bruce Willis, shows up with a knowing wink; and the fabulous house at Lake Como really does belong to Gorgeous George Clooney.
But if such stratagems sound very nouvelle vague, the aesthetic is sheer ’70s euro-trash, all freeze-frames, hand-held camera, yachts, playboys’ mansions and Fabergé eggs. For most of the movie I kept expecting the Vampiros Lesbos theme to start up, except that David Holmes’ magnificently sleazy score does an even better job of making you think you’ve wandered into some psychedelic Italian porn.
Of course, the biggest thrill to be had from the entire affair is ogling the newly single Brad. I saw him first.

120mins. Cert 15a. Opens February 4th.