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Film Review: Ocean’s 8

Ocean’s 8 (2018; Directed by Gary Ross)

Steven Soderbergh’s 2001-2007 Ocean’s Trilogy doesn’t get the movie geek attention and passion that so many other franchises (which are more speculative/escapist and less basically realist than Ocean’s is) receive, but I’ll be damned if his three entertaining, charming heist films headlined by George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Matt Damon aren’t one of the most consistently strong (if basically shallow) blockbuster trilogies in modern Hollywood. It’s hard to point to considerable flaws or lag-points in any of the movies (Don Cheadle’s ludicrously bad Cockney accent notwithstanding), and of course all three were commercially successful, with Soderbergh’s well-known on-budget production practices and the all-star cast not taking their usual large fees helping the case.

If there aren’t legions of highly engaged fans still furiously debating the relative quality of specific Ocean’s movies and even specific characters or scenes or moments as is the case with the legendarily (infamously?) engaged fanbase of Star Wars, maybe that’s not such a failing or disadvantage of the intellectual property. No doubt films this enjoyable and well-made have their dedicated fans, but if there are fanatical partisans out there declaiming to the internet that a character choice in Ocean’s Thirteen ruined their childhood, we’re not really hearing from them (such a fan would have to be far too old for that specific complaint or even for the internet, mind you, considering that the Soderbergh trilogy rebooted a casual 1960 Rat Pack heist movie in the first place).

If that was ever going to happen, it would have with Ocean’s 8, a franchise reboot released eleven years after Soderbergh put a bow on his trilogy with Ocean’s Thirteen. Directed by Hollywood veteran Gary Ross (Pleasantville, Seabiscuit, The Hunger Games) and co-written by Ross and Olivia Milch, Ocean’s 8 takes an increasingly favoured approach vector to rebooting a Hollywood franchise whose core conceit comes across as both proscribedly progressive and cynically courting “controversy”: the all-female remake of a property previously defined by its dominance by male characters. After the trumped-up and frequently misogynist online mouth-frothing over the all-female-headlined (and fairly innocuous and middling) 2016 Ghostbusters reboot, not to mention similarly toxic discourse surrounding the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy with its female lead or the first female Doctor Who or the barest rumoured possibility of James Bond no longer being played by a white man, Ocean’s 8 might have become another unlikely culture-war battleground by dint of the gender of its core octet of heist-spinning characters. Outside of sparking some mild (and maybe ultimately productive) discussion about how the film’s so-so critical reception revealed a lack of diversity in major-publication film criticism, that didn’t happen. There’s certainly nothing remotely radical or even really progressive about Ocean’s 8‘s watered-down, barely-there pop-feminism (where “feminism” consists merely of a bare passing grade in the Bechdel Test), and maybe that’s a factor. But more likely even the most rabid reactionary anti-feminists online couldn’t be arsed to get their danders up over a female take-over of a franchise known for deploying expertly cool and witty but essentially disposable and forgettable genre entertainment.

That exact species of entertainment is deployed with professional aplomb in Ocean’s 8. Its titular protagonist is Debbie Ocean (Sandra Bullock), long-incarcerated sister of George Clooney’s initial-trilogy lead Danny Ocean, who is established as being (quite probably but maybe not definitely) dead. Released from prison after giving an emotionally convincing but entirely insincere performance of contrition for her past crimes, Debbie immediately begins prepping for an audacious heist that she used her copious free time while locked up to plan in intricate detail. Debbie intends to steal a valuable and highly-protected $150 million diamond necklace by contriving a rare public appearance for it at New York City’s glitterati social event of the year, the Met Gala at Manhattan’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. In addition to the usual heist motivations of winning uncommon wealth and feeling the sheer thrill of pulling it off, Debbie has a further impetus: revenge on her ex-lover and ex-criminal conspirator Claude Becker (Richard Armitage), an arrogantly assured art dealer whose betrayal of her in a past plot landed her in the clink.

Debbie’s primary heist-team ally Lou Miller (Cate Blanchett, in the equivalent of the Brad Pitt role from the prior movies) is not too thrilled with her partner’s perceived emotional involvement in the job in anticipation of it leading to complications, and not just because of the low-key subtextual same-sex frisson between the two of them (Blanchett, with that glint in her eye that she always seems to get in silly big-budget studio films, leans into it more perceptibly than Bullock does). The rest of the team, assembled one at a time in classic heist-movie style (although not entirely predictably), is made up entirely of women, mostly but not uniformly motivated by money. There’s an expert jewel assessor (Mindy Kaling), a street-hustling pickpocket (a mouthy Awkwafina), a prodigious computer hacker (Rihanna, decked out in dreadlocks and rastafarian hat in nearly-full racial stereotype mode), and an expert conwoman and fence (procurer and seller of stolen goods) who is also a suburban mom (Sarah Paulson, who is almost always better than she is here). The one possible exception to the score-driven majority is fashion designer Rose Weil (Helena Bonham-Carter gamely fighting an Irish accent to a draw), who is looking to burnish her diminshed reputation by dressing a Met Gala superstar attendee while simultaneously staving off the revenue authorities probing her tax evasion with the proceeds of the theft.

The eighth woman is an intended unwitting mule for the jewels who doesn’t entirely play along as hoped: superstar actress Daphne Kluger (Anne Hathaway), guest of honour at the Met Gala and one-night wearer of the valuable Cartier necklace Ocean’s team intends to pilfer. The whole cast is having a grand time acting in this movie, one of the most discernable and heartening holdovers from the light and fun Ocean’s Eleven to Thirteen, which felt above all like glamourous, exclusive parties that we were fortunate enough to get a glimpse of. But Hathaway lets rip with a breathily overblown comic sendup of her movie-star public image that is clearly the source of great glee to her, and therefore can’t help but be so for the audience as well. I’ve long enjoyed Hathaway and found her to be an especially adept comic actress as she is here, but she also gets no shortage of grief for being a perceived try-hard achiever who can never quite connect on a deeper level, which is one of several pervasive reductive tropes imposed upon female actors (even those who have won Oscars for their acting). Ask on-again, off-again America’s Sweetheart Sandra Bullock about that, although co-stars Blanchett, Bonham-Carter, and Paulson have all managed to carve out accomplished and varied careers outside of the classic sexist screen archetypes, to an extent.

Ocean’s 8 has several built-in, barely-more-than-superficial subtexts about the nature of female experiences that are discernable if never substantial enough to detract from or to deepen the slick blockbuster entertainment package of the movie. Unlike Steve McQueen’s Widows, which smartly, artistically utilized heist-movie genre conventions to explore not only women’s complex and fraught positions of autonomy from and subjugation to patriarchal power but the interconnected nature of American politics and social inequality as well, Ocean’s 8 is focused on flashy high fashion and the convention of the vengeful woman scorned as more than a little cynical sops to narrative themes that Hollywood has long used to sell its products to female audiences.

Supporting team members do represent a superficially diverse set of racial identities (South Asian, East Asian, Afro-Carribean, Fake Irish) as well as of oft-elided socioeconomic roles for women (the invisible professional, the socially marginal and legally precarious, the tech wizard, the aging creative in a youth-focused industry, the frustrated and underestimated homemaker). But just being representatives of these identities or roles, while far from amounting to nothing, doesn’t rise to the level of using those base roles and identities to dissect and interrogate the implied meanings and interpolations of occupying such positions in society and culture. Representation alone is not political or social critique. You can say that mainstream genre entertainment like Ocean’s 8 isn’t the place to do that, but Widows, working in the same precise genre although with a weightier tone, certainly was, and even otherwise flawed superhero workouts like Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel managed to do some of that as well, to say nothing of Mad Max: Fury Road, both a white-knuckle action thrill ride and a muscular feminist teardown of patriarchy.

Ocean’s 8 director/co-writer Gary Ross is a stalwart Hollywood vet of mostly straight-ahead uncomplicated craft-artistry, like a slightly more poetic and comedically-inclined Ron Howard (which is not an insult but also isn’t not an insult). He helmed the initial installment of one of the highest-grossing female-fronted franchises in movie history, after all. At the risk of being reductive, though, he’s still a dude. One wonders if a female director might have been able to be more nimble in seeding the film’s themes with women’s issues while preserving the slick and clever Ocean’s package audiences have come to expect and which Ross otherwise delivers, albeit with less of the flair and none of the left-field surprises Soderbergh did. Maybe a female director did that, in fact: specifically Lorene Scafaria with Hustlers, a grittier, Scorsese-influenced take on the woman-perpetrated criminal heist formula that Ocean’s 8 relied upon but that outstripped it in critical notice while approaching its profitability.

Ocean’s 8 isn’t invested in depicting women’s struggles or wider considerations of politics, though, outside of the reliable heist-movie trope of the identifiable protagonists stealing from the impossibly cossetted and out-of-touch wealthy elite (which is well-worn enough at this point to be rendered mostly harmless and without redistributionist political portent). Perhaps this is why its gender-flipping reboot of a popular franchise didn’t raise as many hackles as Ghostbusters‘ did. At the end of the day, the Ocean’s movies are a lark and don’t mean anything, so does it matter what gender the fiendish robber heroes are? Not much, and certainly not enough to have any sort of wider-reaching implications worth discussing, let alone contentiously arguing about.

Categories: Film, Reviews
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