All the Pieces Matter: Ocean's Eleven

by Rob DiCristino

A new column on the scenes and sequences that make up the movies we love.

A scene is just a series of shots. A sequence is just a series of scenes. A movie is just a series of sequences. But a great movie is so much more than just the sum of its parts: it’s the pace, the energy, the warmth of the worlds we love to live in. All the pieces matter. Maybe it’s a great performance or music cue. Maybe it’s the slick direction or snappy dialogue. Whatever the case, a movie’s grip on us largely depends on how many of these pieces we latch onto. Often it’s just about preference (we all have our own particular tastes and styles), but there’s a degree of objective awesomeness with which some movies are just plain gifted. Some of them just work. This column will take a look at some essential scenes from great movies (and some good-to-not-so-good movies), breaking them down into their component elements and discovering what makes them tick. These aren’t the films’ best scenes, necessarily, but they’re meant to be a representative sample, a snapshot of the film’s aesthetic and delivery. Let’s get started.

First up is the “celebrity poker” scene from Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven, a movie so goddamn cool that almost any moment might be worthy of this column. This one, though, is a five-minute bit in the first act that serves to introduce Brad Pitt’s character Rusty Ryan and his relationship with Danny Ocean (George Clooney). For the uninitiated, Danny and Rusty are out-of-work con men itching for a respite from boredom: Danny’s been serving a lengthy prison sentence after a heist-gone-wrong, while Rusty’s been cooling his heels in Las Vegas, giving poker lessons to actors. The plot demands that we get these two back together in order to kick off the action and get to The Big Heist, but all we know right now is that they haven’t spoken in some time and that Danny is on the hunt for his partner.

Rusty is snacking when we meet him, a gag that runs through all three Ocean’s films* and sets up his relaxed and groovy aloofness, an effortless cool that compliments his role as Ocean’s second-in-command. We hit that beat again when he refuses to haggle with Topher Grace over his fee. This is the best kind of character exposition, the kind that shows and doesn’t tell. With barely a word, we know who he is and what to expect from him. The scene moves to a back room where Rusty walks a group of young television actors (Grace, Joshua Jackson, Holly Marie Combs, Barry Watson, and Shane West) through a hand of five-card draw. Their bumbling ineptitude (“All reds!”) does two things: it endears us to Rusty as an intelligent (and frustrated) authority and cues the audience to pay attention to order, process, and result, all essential to following a heist caper.

After a much-needed break (“I’m running away with your wife!”) Rusty returns to find his old buddy Danny in the mix. They share a long look that could mean anything from “How dare you?” to “Thank God you’re here!” Now we’ve got genuine dramatic stakes. Whereas we sympathized with Rusty a minute ago, we’re now in the actors’ position, a bit nervous and eager to understand the dynamic between these two. Since Soderbergh (and Ted Griffin’s screenplay) understand that there’s no reason for two characters who already know something to explain it to each other, the actors flesh out the pair’s backstory through a series of tense questions and ambiguous answers: we know the Incan headdress score went tits-up, but we don’t actually know who was responsible or how these two feel about each other.

This ambiguity is crucial for what’s coming next – Danny raising the stakes of the poker game. The sequence is now firmly in its second act (conflict and complication), and it’s worth noting that this one move serves all three plot threads: it tests the actors’ developing poker skills, gives Rusty the real challenge he’s been so desperate for, and allows Danny to feel out how willing Rusty is to play ball. Note the way Rusty comments on Danny’s actions; he seems like he’s teaching the kids, but he’s really taking digs at Danny’s bad habits (more character exposition!) and codifying their relationship for the audience. The kids giggle and posture themselves for the two veterans, but neither man is registering their actions at all. This is a mental game between old rivals (note, again, that they almost never take their eyes off of each other once the hand starts), a silent undercurrent of a story thread that we’re aching to see pay off.

It feels for a while like Rusty might be using this opportunity to one-up Danny, to use his students as a proxy to show off his own skills, but it only takes another longing look or two for us to realize that he and Danny are working together. Rusty, having properly stoked his marks’ fires, bails on the hand and lets their egos take over. It’s important that they bite, not just because they’re gullible young people trying to show off, but because it renews the old dynamic between Danny and Rusty and pushes us into the next act of the film. Danny, the good cop, the smooth operator, sticks the landing: “Not sure what the four nines does, but the ace, I think, is pretty high.” Did Rusty feed him cards, or is Danny just that good? Either way, it worked. They’re both warmed up and ready to get down to serious business. It’s the kind of cool and confident sleight of hand that Ocean’s Eleven will make a habit of for the next two hours, a deceptively brilliant scene that serves plot, backstory, and character all at the same time.

Plus, there are scantily-clad ladies dancing in the background.

What are your favorite scenes in Ocean’s Eleven? What other movies would you like to see covered on All the Pieces Matter? Leave it in the comments.

*The best and most ridiculous example of this is later in Eleven, when he munches on shrimp cocktail (complete with napkin and sauce) while talking to Matt Damon’s Linus Caldwell at a valet station.

Good Night, and Good Luck

by Rob DiCristino

“We will not walk in fear, one of another.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to be better than this. We were supposed to listen to each other and come together as a cohesive whole. Clearly, we all understood what was at stake. Clearly, we all understood that those who preached hate and fear would see the error of their ways and unite under the banner of progress and inclusion. We would protect ourselves and promote the common good. We all felt that way. We still do. The problem is that they do, too. Whoever your “they” happens to be, they feel it, too. They feel enormous, crippling fear at the thought of your way of life prevailing. They cry and they shout and they wish their way into a reality that is completely foreign to yours and mine. That is the danger of a plural society. That’s what’s so hard about sharing and coexisting. That’s why, so often, we stop engaging with one another. That’s where we are now, and that needs to change. We need to hear each other out. We need to believe and we need to trust and we need to act. We need to speak our minds and defend our ideals. We need to ask questions and we need to take chances. We need to listen to Ed Murrow.

George Clooney’s Good Night, and Good Luck pits Murrow (David Strathairn), the legendary CBS broadcaster, against Wisconsin senator Joseph McCarthy, the legendary xenophobic bigot. Both of them knew what was right: McCarthy knew that the communists had infiltrated the government of the United States. He knew that our children were in danger. Murrow knew that McCarthy was breaking the law, that he was using disgusting, Draconian methods to embarrass innocent American citizens. They both used the power of the media to drive their messages home. They grandstanded and they proselytized. They made it important, and they asked us to make up our minds as we saw fit. For Murrow, it was a matter of conscience: does he pander to advertisers, to his news director (Jeff Daniels) and head honcho (Frank Langella), or does he team up with his producer Fred Friendly (Clooney) to expose and attack intolerance where it lives? Would his team of reporters (including Robert Downey, Jr. and Patricia Clarkson as married-in-secret couple Joe and Shirley Wershba) go along with him? Would they be punished for speaking out?

Good Night, and Good Luck is a film about fear. It’s about the fear many of us feel today. It’s about the fear that our wives and daughters felt when they woke up this morning. It’s about the fear our students feel as they struggle to understand this new status quo. It’s the same fear our opponents felt when they chose the direction they wanted our country to take. It’s a paranoid film, at times; its voyeuristic camera sneaks in and out of private conversations, using close-ups and extreme long shots in equal measure. It listens over our shoulders and sits quietly while we make secret confessions. Its archival footage of congressional hearings makes us face up to our past. It puts hate in context and indulges in the pathetic squabbling of prideful men. It does this to teach us a lesson about ourselves. To shine a light, tilt a mirror. It points out the futility of name-calling and fear-mongering while admitting their dangerous appeal. It shows us that an editorial and biased news media is not an enemy of the state; the media has, in fact, always had a point of view. Its leaders towered like giants over our national discourse. It has stood up for those who could not stand up for themselves. At its best, it has kept us informed, not just entertained.

Murrow made a choice. He chose to engage. He chose to act, to care. He was a hero. He was a patriot. The Wershbas were patriots, too. They chose love instead of fear. They chose to be themselves. They were principled and committed, and that is not fucking easy. There is no immediately-apparent reward for fighting for a cause greater than oneself. The reward is intrinsic and ideological, but that’s what gives it meaning. Apathy and cynicism are deep, empathetic, human emotions. No one would be blamed for succumbing to them, especially in our Modern Times. We should be afraid of acting, of caring. It should make us nervous. It should separate the tepid and the indifferent from the brave and the ambitious. Not everyone can do what we do. Not everyone can rise up to a powerful bureaucracy and say “stop.” Not everyone can stand firmly on two feet and say “now.” Not everyone can admit they are scared and say “help.” But if we listen, if we ask questions and offer support, we can find roads to compromise and inclusion that push past the anger and insecurity that have insulated us from each other for so long.

“We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. We must remember always that accusation is not proof, and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law. We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason. If we dig deep into our history and our doctrine, we will remember we are not descended from fearful men. Not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were, for the moment, unpopular…We can deny our heritage and our history, but we cannot escape responsibility for the result…The actions of the Junior Senator from Wisconsin have caused alarm and dismay amongst our allies abroad and given considerable comfort to our enemies. And whose fault is that? Not really his; he didn't create this situation of fear. He merely exploited it, and rather successfully. Cassius was right: ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’

Good night, and good luck.”