Ocean's Twelve


Here's an idiocy for you: Pitt, Clooney, Roberts and co slagged for being stars. How dare they trot off to Italy and make so much money while having so much fun? How dare they skip around looking glamorous and happy? Bastards.

That was the general tone when Clooney's crims reunited for a sequel even he admitted was brought forward because Solaris bombed. And, yes, it shows: the script - - a shoehorned follow-up from what was originally a John Woo project - - is structurally shaky and the third act trickery surely a result of shooting against the clock. But then Steven Soderbergh never promised Rififi and amid the schematics of this money-spinner there's a ridiculous amount of fun: Vincent Cassel's gymnastics, the daft holo-Fabergé, Matt Damon's self-referential lampooning ("'I'd like to play a more central role this time'"). Not as polished as its predecessor, but just as grin-trigger rewatchable.

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