Cucumber Eyes

Cheadle played Sammy Davis Jnr. in the tv movie The Rat Pack - a role which called for the most talented actor of The Pack, as he had to mime not only singing, but tap-dancing, trumpet-playing and six-gunning, so it is with great concern that we view this exemplary actor's abject ignorance and lack of perception of one particular inflective tongue, based on his own spoken language! (Well, actually, preceding his spoken language, but this ain't the forum for resolving etymological beefs.)

Still, casting Cheadle as a warbling limey was only nominally more sensible than casting the shovel-mouthed Julia Roberts as a "beautiful woman." And as casting choices go, this movie was at a disadvantage from the outset with the impossible task of filling the shoes of one Francis Albert Sinatra. In a role which Frank insouciantly tossed off as a lark (which cast all the more sheen on it for its rebellious bent), head-waggling George Clooney steps up as Danny Ocean. And fails.

With Ocean's Eleven, as with Robin and the Seven Hoods, or Jailhouse Rock, or Every Which Way But Loose, we're not so much dealing with "movies" as we are with "movie stars." (In sooth, this 2001 Ocean's Eleven observes that tradition with the wealth of wasted talent deployed in it.) Re-making films such as these will not capture the consecrated quality afforded the originals by the passage of time and the involvement of their particular god-status icons. It is merely a fiscal exercise, involving brand-name recognition (buy the original rights and wretchedly sully the nostalgia), curiosity quotient (we'll get the Frank & Dino fans into the theater at least once), next-generation retro hipness ("I'm so kewl cos I like the "classics"), crossover marketing (with this ensemble, we're bound to get someone through the turnstiles) and providing A-List actors with work to keep them off reality shows.

The premise to heist major casinos in Las Vegas is the only tie with the original Eleven, as this remake's storyline had to be noticeably updated to cater to the state of advances in hi-tech security, the writers sensibly eschewing re-creating The Rat Pack's lo-tech heist note for note.

Of the heist gang, Brad Pitt is Clooney's "Dino"; Matt Damon meanders one-dimensionally, Bernie Mac does his "black thing"; Cheadle does his "cockney(?) thing"; excepting Elliott Gould and Carl Reiner, the remainder of the Eleven are populated by "passengers," including Ben Affleck's brother and James Caan's son gaily taking on half-dimensional roles.

Maybe it's just admiring that previous generation's devil-may-care tilt at Life (or at least, the media's reporting of it) that gives the 1960 Eleven more of a rose-colored flare than all the gadgetry and gags this remake offers as collateral. Though there are attempts at capturing the magic and camaraderie of the original (Clooney's best line to Pitt, "Ted Nugent called - he wants his shirt back"), this movie's redemption is in its slick production value - it may ring hollow as a buddy-piece, but it is truly a guilty ocular pleasure, highly watchable for its appealing camerawork, lighting and set design.

Inadvertently turning this piece into a nolo contendre flame-fest, I might as well fire home the last barb in stating that the original Eleven packs a hilarious, if not frustrating, twist ending - unequivocally a more substantial wallop than the anchor that this remake is built on: the interpersonal fizzle of George & Julia's latent love. Let's face it, an action-comedy movie with an ending where Nothing Happens leaves us holding the proverbial injured aquatic bird (i.e. lame duck).

With this ensemble, one would expect roiling acting chops flung at the viewer like raw meat to lions, but the only players who consistently chew their roles delectably are Andy Garcia (as the casino owner heistee), Gould and Reiner. Everyone else is flailing for substance, including Pitt and Clooney who only have a few good moments together; the rest of the time, they're just being Brad Pitt and George Clooney, vying for enough screentime to try to top each other for one of those provincial, back-slapping, faux-prestigious awards that already exists: People Magazine's World's Sexiest Man.

My vote is for Frank Sinatra.


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