A lightweight but altogether entertaining romp-reunion that seems like nothing more -- or less -- than a do-over for the Steven Soderbergh-George Clooney Gang's ponderous, too-hip-for-the room Ocean's Twelve.
Surrendering to Ocean's 13's pleasurable surfaces is sort of like admitting your attraction to a luxury brand: Sure, those alligator loafers are extravagant nonsense, but they feel so nice on your feet.
The most enjoyable thing about the Ocean's movies is that nobody involved seems to take them seriously. The star wattage is immense but the stars themselves are refreshingly self-deprecating, almost satirically so.
For two hours, life as you drearily know it is effectively suspended and a summery delirium takes over. This may be one of the busiest movies ever made, but Soderbergh keeps the activity percolating with a fizzy arsenal of retro editing flourishes.
Predictably adolescent and smarmy, with the mix of sentimentality and cynical flippancy that's becoming Steven Soderbergh's specialty (even when he's pretending to make art films), this is chewing gum for the eyes and ears, and not bad as such.
Ocean's Thirteen still feels like one trip too many to the craps table, playing the same hunches, with the outcome unimaginatively clear from the start: Categorical victory for the rascally good guys, utter defeat and humiliation for the villain.
There's actually a coherent script, and there are some real laughs. Not big laughs, mind you, but a fairly steady stream of smiles and chuckles. And their newest caper is, as expected, fiendishly complex and outlandishly executed.
As smooth as a good mojito, as stylish as an Armani suit and as meaningful in the grand scheme of things as yesterday's Las Vegas betting odds, Ocean's Thirteen continues the breezy good times of the first two series entries without missing a beat.