While it is easy to write Ocean’s 8 off as another pile of slop in the Hollywood trough, there is, from the outset, a certain sense of the tragedian–biblical even–to the narrative of a woman that stems directly from a man. While the dynamic between Debbie Ocean (Sandra Bullock) and Danny Ocean (George Clooney) might not be Adam and Eve so much as Cain and Abel Lite, she is, in essence, sprung from the rib of his story in order to get a heist screenplay of her own. And to establish that story, and its necessary similarity to that of Danny’s, we meet Debbie at the interview for her parole consideration, in which she claims she wants nothing more than to live “the simple life.” And like Nikki Finn (Madonna) in Who’s That Girl (Griffin Dunne, the leading male in said movie, incidentally plays the parole board officer listening to Debbie’s argument for release), Debbie only cares about making herself look “human” once more by immediately applying her lipstick–one of the few personal effects on her person when she was arrested–and bantering with the typically judgmental female officer (unlike Nikki Finn, however, she actually does have a good rapport with the woman, who has long been in cahoots with her over the course of Debbie’s five-year sentence).
Out into the open air in the evening gown she was apprehended in, the voiceover of Debbie responding to the question, “Where you gonna go?” is “I’ve got forty-five dollars in my pocket. I can go anywhere I want.” And where else would a non-reformed criminal chasing dreams of grandeur go besides New York City? To meet her there is the nightclub-running Lou (Cate Blanchett), in the obvious Brad Pitt/Rusty Ryan role. While she’s been busy teaching ingenues how to water down handles of vodka to the tune of Sofi Tukker’s “Best Friend,” Debbie has been developing the kind of ironclad strategy for a con that only her dead (maybe) brother could truly appreciate for its multi-faceted (a diamond pun, if you will) beauty.
Lou, who clearly goes way back with Debbie, still can’t read her well enough to immediately intuit all the sordid details of her plan until Debbie gradually unearths them. Which she does outside the steps of the Met Museum, where so many people flock not for the art, but to re-create a Blair Waldorf/Serena Van Der Woodsen experience. Yes, they are going to steal a valued piece of jewelry (specifically Cartier’s Toussaint necklace) on the night of the Met Gala. Like Danny before her, however, she will need to assemble an elite team of ragtag people–women–with little to nothing to lose–a.k.a. standing only to gain from taking such a risk on Debbie’s dicey plan. One such woman, surprisingly, is formerly heralded fashion designer Rose Weil (Helena Bonham Carter), who is well above her head in the murky debts she owes to various parties including the IRS. It is Rose, dark horse that she is, who will gain them the access they need to the neck of a star in attendance: Daphne Kluger (Anne Hathaway, doing her best parody of herself, an uppity bitch–so the perception goes). By making Daphne believe that her younger rival, Penelope Stern (Dakota Fanning), has a close, personal relationship with Rose, arranged strategically by Debbie and Lou to be photographed so that Page Six will cover it, Daphne is predictably invoked to ask Rose to dress her for the “European crown jewels”-themed ball (not the best theme, but then, neither was Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy in ‘08).
With those wheels set in motion, all they really need is a good pickpocket and a hacker, both strategically played by ethnic women–Awkwafina as Constance in the Linus Caldwell (Matt Damon) part and Rihanna as Nine Ball in the Livingston Dell (Eddie Jemison) one. And yet, considering the comical timing of both women in question, neither are used to their optimal value. The same goes for Mindy Kaling, who plays jewelry maker Amita, instrumental to creating a fake, digitally printed cubic zirconia copy of the Toussaint so that it can distract everyone from the fact that the original is missing long enough to get it out of the museum.
While Gary Ross is no writer-director to balk at (he has brought us the one-word gems Big, Dave, Pleasantville and Seabiscuit), the Ocean’s magic that Steven Soderbergh created with his bantering (albeit overly laddish at times) ways in the original (or the original remake, if you will) is noticeably lacking in favor of, as stated above, a more destiny-fulfilling track. And it is Debbie’s destiny to not only carve out a place for herself in the Ocean family as an immortal con worthy of the name, but to take down the very man responsible for her undoing. That’s right, her primary motivation for the job, in the end, is vengeance. For, as it has always been iterated, “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn.” And when you do an intelligent woman dirty, you best fucking change your name, address and phone number. And Instagram user name. It is because of this that there is an undercurrent of the tragedian in terms of a necessity for retribution achievement in Ocean’s Eight. And even if that, too, was present in the Clooney films, it’s a concept that has always meant more for women than it has for men.
A typically cheesy flashback to “ten years earlier” to explain how Debbie got played (where the only difference in appearance to demarcate youth is a mildly “out of fashion” haircut), finds Debbie and Lou eking by on a bingo con that compels her to get in deep with an equally as loving of the con art dealer named Claude Becker (Richard Armitage). Explaining that “the only way to con a con is by telling the truth,” Debbie reveals to Tammy (Sarah Paulson), who enjoys stealing items and then selling them for more money, how Claude roped her into a scheme she was too foolish in love to see would blow up in her face before it was too late. Hence, being arrested in an evening gown over what she thought was an innocent dinner with art collectors that Claude led her to like a lamb to the slaughter.
In this regard, the feminist tinge is more obvious at certain times than others, like when Debbie explains not wanting to bring a man into the fold because, “A him gets noticed, a her doesn’t. And this is the one time we don’t want to be.” Ah yes, invisibility and being underestimated, women so often tell themselves, can be a very useful superpower indeed. Or then there’s that scene where she practices a speech in the mirror that justifies her tireless desire to execute the job successfully for the little eight-year-old girl somewhere out there who might someday want to rob and con, and needs folkloric inspiration to do so. It is in this case that, sometimes, feminism for the sake of feminism can go awry.
With all the pieces fallen rather effortlessly into place (especially in comparison to all the shit Danny had to put up with not just in Ocean’s Eleven, but in Ocean’s Twelve and Ocean’s Thirteen), the illustrious night arrives, with Debbie inexplicably sporting a Russian accent despite everyone ultimately knowing that she’s Debbie Ocean and somehow has a foolproof alibi thanks to Nine Ball’s careful ascertainment of a camera blindspot near the bathroom where Daphne runs to throw up (thanks to a special ingredient in her soup from Lou, playing the part of the kitchen’s nutritionist) so that Constance can pilfer the necklace.
With Claude put in the marionette role of Daphne’s date (another contrivance engineered by Debbie and Lou), Debbie is assured even sweeter revenge once Daphne herself manages to get in league with the other seven, making her, to fulfill the promise of the title, Ocean’s eighth. And what, she’s a woman so she can’t handle overseeing ten people instead of a more “manageable” seven? It’s fucking bullshit. But, alas, women must take baby steps toward being worthy of the genre called the ensemble cast con movie. Maybe Guy Ritchie will be next to tackle the category (if he’s willing to change Toff Guys to Toff Girls). At any cost, Ocean’s Eight, however, has made a unique stride toward a new normal in mainstream film, one in which it isn’t a crime for a woman, should she be given the opportunity to find in her possession millions of dollars, to pursue such male-less activities as becoming a director, or buying her own deluxe apartment, or opening up her own billiards-oriented bar, or going on a cross-country road trip. The bottom line is, contrary to what the Greeks believed, the tragic ending no longer includes not ending up with a man.
