In the Bizarro-world landscape of Cannes, Ocean's Thirteen can actually be seen as a bold departure from the mainstream; after nearly two weeks of slow-mo black and white, grinding poverty in Eastern Europe, subtitled mayhem, suicide, unsimulated sex wrenching teen angst and Dogme-style naturalism, a few movie stars feels like a nice change from the same old same old. I wish I could tell you that Ocean's Thirteen is pure adult fun, or that it charms your pants off, or that it at least had you guessing how the boys were going to pull it off this time; I can't quite do that. Ocean's Thirteen is pretty much a confection of silly gags, great visuals, male bonhomie and goofy comedic 'suspense.' And I'm not, per se, complaining; you might as well complain that the ocean contains hydrogen, oxygen and salt.
The moneyman of the Ocean team, Reuben Tishkoff (Eliot Gould) has gotten into bed with the wrong partner -- predatory, vain Willy Banks (Al Pacino, in a low-yet-effective gear of his scenery-chewing 'Hoo-aaaah!' mode). Banks has never met a man he wouldn't swindle, and cuts Reuben out of the deal. Reuben can't believe that a fellow Vegas old-timer would do such a thing: "There's a code among guys that shook Sinatra's hand!" The shock lands Reuben in hospital, leading to a gathering of Danny Ocean (George Clooney) and his crew to avenge this wrong against their friend.