The Automatik

Frank Sinatra called, he wants his movie back.

I don’t regret that I’ve never seen the original version of this film. Although a movie with Peter Lawford and Sammy Davis, Jr. does sound appealing, I don’t think I could stomach Ol’ Blue Eyes for two solid hours. In these times of fervent, almost paranoid nationalism, I will stand proudly by my statement that I do not like Frank Sinatra. I never have and probably never will.

So you can imagine my excitement at seeing a movie that attempted to capture the glamour of late 50s Hollywood and Vegas with none of the smarmy misogyny that is present in nearly every Sinatra film role (except for perhaps The Manchurian Candidate and Man With the Golden Arm, neither of which I have seen.). And of course, with Steven Soderbergh at the helm, it was bound to be fabulous.

And it is. It’s strange but interesting to watch Soderbergh teeter on the line between his signature odd editing and sound bridges and make a film that is fairly straightforward stylistically. Like classic Hollywood cinema, we’ve got pristine scene transitions and gorgeous mise en scene, in addition to clever thematic threads that hold the movie together. Although we’ve entered a new millennium, ironic pop culture references are as prevalent as ever.

The original Ocean’s 11 seems to have been a forum for the members of the Rat Pack to pal around, smoke, booze and chase dames�and oh yeah, star in a caper film. The coterie of hot young actors at the poker game in the beginning of the film is Soderbergh and Clooney’s tongue-in-cheek paean to the 1960 original. The irony is palpable and quite hilarious when Topher Grace (That 70s Show, Traffic), Holly Marie Combs (Charmed), Joshua Jackson (Dawson’s Creek) and Barry Watson (7th Heaven) are mobbed by squealing fans as they leave the very hip strip club/gambling joint, while dashing Brad Pitt and George Clooney (no slob himself) exit the joint completely unnoticed. After all, they are just criminals in couture, not famous Hollywood stars. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Clooney (as Danny Ocean) does what he apparently does best: portray a fast-talking, wise-cracking rogue with a heart of gold. There was no acting stretch for him here, but he’s so good at that character, who can really complain? Pitt (Rusty Ryan) proves once again that he looks damn good in vintage 60s and 70s style clothing and that he’s quite the comedian. Again, no virtuoso performances like in Se7en or Twelve Monkeys, but it’s not that kind of a movie after all.

I was pleased to see Matt Damon (Bobby Caldwell) and NOT Ben Affleck, though I’m not at all displeased to see Casey Affleck, who in my opinion, is more talented and interesting than his boozing, Gwyneth Paltrow-chasing older brother. Damon is as luminous and captivating as ever here, echoing his excellent job in Rounders. And speaking of Rounders, where was Edward Norton? I think he would have been perfect in the understated role of the computer geek, but maybe that’s just me.

Thank god that Soderbergh is a hot property and able to woo immensely talented actors like Don Cheadle away from dreck like Mission to Mars. Cheadle is consistently terrific in every thing he’s been in, and that includes dreck like Mission to Mars. I love the English accent and Cockney rhyming slang; is it used for effect or is it merely Soderbergh’s homage to another one of his own films, The Limey? At any rate, it’s clever and provides some great comic relief.

Andy Garcia is thoroughly reptilian as evil casino owner Terry Benedict. And what the hell is he wearing? White neckties, ankle length cream colored cashmere coats, brocade cummerbunds: he looks like a sinister Eastern Transylvanian prince. And naturally, we hate him. He does the throaty, calm-on-the-surface-but-boiling-with-rage-underneath voice as well as, if not better than, Alec Baldwin.

Then there are the two titans, Carl Reiner (who proves why he is such a legend in the very first scene in which he appears) and Elliott Gould, who is just ridiculous. The Malcolm Forbes glasses, the gold chains, the massive cigar, and the chest hair and simultaneously repugnant and hilarious. They make it look so easy, that acting business.

My only complaint is the casting of Julia Roberts as Danny Ocean’s ex-wife Tess. She’s perfectly capable of doing a decent-to-good job and she does, although I find her rather boring and stilted. But at least she’s not portrayed as a slut or a wimp. The dialogue between her and Clooney is crackling good, and a welcome change from the attempts at witty repart�e in most of what passes for good movies these days.

But enough about the cast members! The theme of surveillance, subterfuge, and fakery that weaves its way throughout the film is remarkable; in fact, we don’t even get to witness the big payoff, the actual heist. Instead we watch, along with Benedict, a previously recorded heist, one that was filmed on a set meticulously crafted to look like the vault at the casino. The self-reflexivity is everywhere, most beautifully rendered in a scene where Pitt and Clooney watch the techno geek do his thing and our tension and relief is mirrored by theirs when he fumbles the exit but finally finishes the job. And when Benedict admits that he prefers money to love, it is viewed by us and by Tess on a surveillance camera.

Of course each of the twelve men involved in the robbery have to play multiple roles as both masterminds and casino employees and clients. The two brothers, Virgil and Turk, are the most adept at the artifice of chameleonic shifts of character and we get an inkling of their loose cannon personalities when they are first introduced to us: one driving a monster truck and the other operating a miniature version of the same truck with a remote control. Ostensibly, it’s a race, but then Turk simply runs over the smaller truck just for the hell of it.

All of this chicanery would seem grating and glib were it not for the human, extremely sympathetic performances by all of the actors. Virgil and Turk fighting over a game of twenty questions (with a clever Eveil Kneivel reference); Danny’s assertion that he’s not just doing it for the money, he’s doing it for the love of a woman; the “95 pound Chinese guy,” a circus contortionist whose contribution to the scam is that he is literally a shapeshifter; master pickpocket Bobby Caldwell falling for Rusty and Danny’s reverse psychology (as do all of us); and Rusty, his perfect face, physique, and fashion sense belied by the fact that he’s constantly stuffing his face along with the presence of that mysterious, sexy wrist tattoo poking out of his sleeve (reminding me of Clooney’s character in From Dusk Til Dawn).

Even the characters know the importance of the fa�ade. When Rusty exposes Danny’s speech about why he’s going through all of the expense and preparation for the job as precisely the B.S. it is, we laugh, pleased and relieved that it was just a speech. The breakdown between the grifter and the grift is a welcome occurrence.

The music, both diegetic and non-diegetic, is flawless, right down to the wonderful Elvis track (“A Little Less Conversation”) which reminds us why he truly is The King. At the end, when Las Vegas is displayed in all its excessive glory, we are treated to sumptuous classical music and dancing water fountains. We’ve spent the last two hours being amused, impressed, suspensed, and charmed. And even if Ocean’s 11 is not a very deep film and there’s no message behind it, it’s a damn fun ride.