Sandra Bullock, Catherine Blanchett, Anne Hathaway, Mindy Kaling
We Gifted Him B
In a year full of noble spandex heroes fighting crime, it feels like someone's been committing somebody ̵
Eleven years after the last testosterone-spun excursion of the Ocean's trilogy – all springing naturally from the iconic original of 1960 – Sandra Bullock plays in a loose-lady-centric sequel as Debbie Ocean, a sister imprisoned George Clooney's late, mournful Danny. (Like Wallendas flying or Kennedy's running for office, oceans stealing, it's what they do.) As the movie begins, Debbie has just given a five-year sentence by promising the parole board that everything she wants on the outside is silent is, simple life. In fact, she's already planning a sophisticated robbery at the Met Gala – New York's annual celebration of fame, fashion, and social Darwinism – that draws a stunning Cartier necklace straight from the neck of starred starlet Daphne Kluger (Anne Hathaway).
Of course, to get through it, she'll need a crew: The pitt for her Clooney is Lou (Cate Blanchett), an old petty criminal partner who now runs half-hearted nightclub scams. Helena Bonham Carter Rose, a faded Irish couturier desperate for money and career, offers Daphne the entree; Rihanna's spliff-smoking hacker Nine Ball and Awkwafina's laconic street sweeper Constance brings technical support and millennial wisdom. Amita (Mindy Kaling) is the diamond expert, and Tammy (Sarah Paulson) with the sticky finger has a face to dizzy.
Director Gary Ross ( Seabiscuit, The Hunger Games ) keeps everything moving with vivid, winking efficiency, and everything in the frame shines: jewels, cheekbones, even Brooklyn's gritty industrial waterfront. Rarely so many trench coats were worn so unclothed; Blanchett's pony alone deserves its own sonnet. Hathaway's waste of brittle, theatrical narcissism is also a sly climax, especially in context; When famous faces (Serena Williams, Katie Holmes, James Corden) drop by, it's fifty-fifty whether they play themselves or an actual part.
Too often, the script feels like it's about to roll where it should crackle snatch The Energy of Steven Soderbergh's 2001 Eleven – all the Rat Pack-visual jazz and ring-a-thing-thing Dialogue – here is largely set aside for brilliant scene setting and the action's mechanics. Rare moments of character, such as Constance patiently explaining Tinder to Amita, feel like an incitement to the fuller, sharper story of friendship and feminine dynamics that it could have been. Instead Ocean's is mostly playing his lopsided ladies straight: airy, criminal, and frictionless. B