There is, if we’re being honest here, and why wouldn’t we be, really no good reason to watch Ocean’s Thirteen at this point. Its time, to the degree it ever had one, is past, and it has moved squarely into the “Well, I work from home, and there’s nothing else on at noon on a Monday so why don’t I just put on cable and leave whatever is on in the background while I work” category of films, the undisputed king of which is and always will be a little film called Literally Any Harrison Ford Movie, Seriously, Any Single One, It’s Probably On AMC Right Now. I love that movie.
But despite this firm statement about not seeking out Ocean’s Thirteen for any reason, there I was last night flicking through HBO Go at 10:13 PM because I was getting so stressed out by the elect-…
[buzzers and alarms begin going off like crazy in my brain, a team of very tiny workers called the Self-Preservation Unit begin shouting “THIS IS NOT A DRILL. INITIATE SELF-PRESERVATION OVERRIDE!” before pulling a giant lever that sends my thoughts careening away from anything upsetting]
Hmm. No reason, I guess. Not even sure why you’re asking, everything was totally fine. I just really wanted to watch it. Anyway, before I even really knew what happened, I had clicked play. I watched the entire thing, radio silent, which was fine because…
[a computer expert member of the team begins furiously clicking away at a keyboard…]
… nothing else important was going on last night anyway.
With that said, here are a few thoughts I had while watching Ocean’s Thirteen last night:
#1. The plot of Ocean’s Thirteen is totally insane. One of the crew’s old rich guys, Reuben, gets hosed out of a casino deal and left to die mid-heart-attack on the top floor of an unfinished casino by Al Pacino and his goons. So your Clooneys and Pitts and such resolve to settle the score and ruin this Pacino rascal, and their plan involves everything from bedbugs to manmade earthquakes to borderline sexual assault to Mexican worker revolutions to loaded dice. And wigs. So many wigs. And prosthetics. The wig and prosthetics budget on this movie probably explains why this is the only Ocean’s movie without Julia Roberts. They needed that $20 million for Damon’s preposterous schnoz. Authenticity is important.
#2. In order for any of this score-settling to work, Pacino’s character, whose last name is, I swear to God, Bank, and is by his own admission the most powerful man in the history of Nevada, would have had to not recognize Danny Ocean and his cavalcade of heist associates, despite the fact that they very recently stole hundreds of millions of dollars from another casino and are apparently known throughout the world as criminal masterminds. Also, Bank even meets with Danny and references them knowing similar people. And we know that Danny’s name pops up with his whole crew as “known associates” because that’s what happened when their card counter guy got pinched and fingerprinted.
Point being: It would’ve taken Bank like 30 seconds of Googling to realize that the mysterious mustachioed seismologist who looked a lot like Brad Pitt and was selling him an earthquake thingy he had never heard of just days after a notorious criminal vowed to get even with him was, in fact, Brad Pitt. The movie could have ended right there. Bingo Bango. Problem solved.