Ocean’s Eight might be a heist film, but the real scam here is the film itself. This pseudo-sequel/spin-off to Steven Soderbergh’s suave-af franchise boasts a sparkling all-star cast and promises glitz and glamour. The masculine accoutrements of Ocean’s Eleven through Thirteen – whiskey, tailored suits, casinos, Dawson’s Creek cameos – are traded for their female equivalents – gowns, jewels, galas, Dawson’s Creek cameos – but that ineffable magic, that incandescent style is sadly missing.
You don’t go to a heist film for the plot. You know the drill: we’ll get the team together, then the plan will go off smoothly before a series of twisty revelations in the final minutes. You buy your ticket for the style, the banter, that sense of what it must feel like to be famous and fabulously wealthy. Ocean’s Eight might be populated by A-list actresses, but it’s executed with D-list banality. Gary Ross is a competent enough director, but he lacks the pizazz to pull this off. (If most of the film is set at the Met Gala, why are the outfits so boring?)
So all you’re really left with is the plot. It sorta hangs together, despite a handful of holes here and there. It’s not enough.