Ocean’s 8 is more than a summer blockbuster, it is a product of our times, an attempt at addressing the gender bias that has been a Hollywood status quo. It takes eight luminous female stars to steamroll the celebrated Oceans series into a domain of dames.
Does it succeed? May be, may be not.
The fizz shows early as Debbie Ocean (Sandra Bullock) gets out of prison to set a heist in motion. Debbie is the sister of Danny Ocean (George Clooney), whose only presence in this picture is via a photo-frame. Because the film is supposed to ride on Debbie’s shoulders, she saunters out of jail in high heels, a feline outfit and chops that can kickstart a roaring party. In a quick montage, we witness her con game, breezing into a plush hotel with swindled luxury items, a quick check here that we only care for her inherited instincts.
Debbie meets Lou (Cate Blanchett), her wingwoman, and we’re off on ladies’ nights and days that are less about men and more about work.
In fact, this gender reversal is a glorious winner if you put it through the Bechdel test, as Lou and Debbie together form a squad which includes Mindy Kaling, Sarah Paulson, Rihanna, Helena Bonham Carter, and Awkwafina who have different and indispensable skills, none of which involve netting a man. The plan is to pull off a big heist at the Met Gala. The plot mechanism rolls with nifty planning, and the crooks find a scapegoat in Anne Hathaway’s Daphne Kluger who will sport the jeweled necklace they wish to steal.
Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s trilogy was high style that made a clockwork heist look so easy and smooth. The actors in it had the languid fragrance of the bygone masculine era, a whiff of wit and a spread of well-tailored style. Gary Ross’ revisionism (he wrote the script with Olivia Milch) gets so busy with plot mechanism of the heist that he forgets what constitutes the chief appeal of the film. These band of ladies can not only light up a dream magazine cover, they could also have boundless fun playing off each other. You keep wishing for the ladies to hang out, relay jokes but director Ross will have none of it.
The real winner is Hathaway, reminding us once again what a can of talent she is. She huffs and puffs into her vanity balloon, she beams in a grand cape, and above all, pulls out the rabbit of a character out of the film’s thin hat, because only she can.
It’s a stunning portrait of a needy, sneaky woman, and Hathaway makes Daphne Kluger the only worthy takeaway.
The heist technically, keeps the surprises coming but does get a little underwhelming by the end with multiple climaxes. The ladies-only party also gets ruined by a pointlessly elongated ex-lover angle, with James Corden arriving late at the party, and getting more hoots than the gang of girls.
Perhaps Soderbergh himself should have helmed the film with his unshowy panache, because Ross with his functional style can’t match the sheen of the former.
We get a chick flick that’s brainy, but all the twists and turns don’t let it savour its wonderful cast.
The bubbles take us along fine, but we never quite get high.
(The writer is a journalist, a screenwriter, and a content developer who believes in the insanity of words, in print or otherwise. He tweets @RanjibMazumder).
(At The Quint, we are answerable only to our audience. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member. Because the truth is worth it.)