George Clooney and his merry band of movie-star friends reassemble once again for Ocean’s Thirteen, another spectacle of celebrity narcissism and goofing off which can only be commended for not being quite as unbearable as its thoroughly self-satisfied predecessor. Directed by Steven Soderbergh with hyper-saturated colors, insanely blooming whites, and lots of ‘70s-style flash, this gossamer-thin sequel involves a revenge scheme by Danny Ocean (Clooney) and his cohorts to ruin a Vegas casino mogul (Al Pacino) whose underhanded business tactics gave their buddy (Elliott Gould) a near-fatal heart attack. As before, the set-up is a lot of “This plan is impossible!” hogwash and the main action is a convoluted rebuke to those initial sentiments, with Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, and their less-famous pals pulling off the seemingly unachievable by donning disguises, wielding electronic gizmos, and crafting ruses with nonchalant, aren’t-we-cool smugness. It goes without saying that none of the plot’s intricate details matter one iota. Yet it’s not simply the emptiness of Ocean’s Thirteen – and the franchise as a whole – that’s so grating; rather, it’s the pervasive arrogance exuded by actors (as well as a director) who seem far too pleased with themselves for producing this hollow shell of a trifle. Still, given that the lazy, slipshod Ocean’s Twelve was little more than a two-hour movie of the cast’s vacation at Clooney’s Italian villa, I guess the fact that everyone tries a little bit harder this time around makes this latest go-round of haughty posturing and wink-wink in-jokes a slight “improvement."