Sitting through “Ocean’s Twelve” is like watching a star-studded, globe-hopping, $85 million party from behind an electrified velvet rope. Less a cohesive film than a celebrity picture book, Steven Soderbergh’s sequel to his remake of the fluffy 1960 Rat Pack film “Ocean’s 11” swaps plot for glamour and glitz. While that’s not a bad thing – “Ocean’s Twelve” can be intoxicating, like a sugar rush to the head – it’s a steep step down from the, er, original.

In “Ocean’s 11” Mr. Soderbergh and crew turned in an immensely entertaining and intelligent story about a gaggle of charming thieves and the joys of a job well done. It was a bit of a minor movie miracle: a romance couched in a heist flick, with believable characters, satisfying twists, and a chummy cast of actors who seemed to be having the time of their lives. It’s one of those rare movies that I’ll always watch when channel-surfing.

“Ocean’s 11” reinvented the Hollywood of a certain era, when Los Angeles tastemakers sold to the rabble champagne-soaked soirees featuring handsome men in tuxedos and drop-dead gorgeous dolls. The irony is that Frank, Dean, and Sammy’s “Ocean’s 11” has more in common with its remake’s sequel than it does with the remake itself. Both movies focus on frosting, not cake: two hours of red carpet elites, letting the flyover states gawk at the spectacle.

When we last saw Danny Ocean (George Clooney), he was riding off into the sunset with his former wife, Tess (Julia Roberts), in tow – the real jewel in a heist that also scored $160 million from the Belaggio in Las Vegas. We catch up with the pair, now living comfortably under aliases in Connecticut. But Danny is idly casing banks, while a bored Tess contemplates what color to paint their house.

The domestic tedium doesn’t last: Tess’s ex, victimized casino boss Terry Benedict, shows up dressed like a 19th-century dandy, demanding he be paid back in two weeks, with interest, or else. Though Benedict is about as threatening as a maitre d’ at a trendy New York restaurant, the ultimatum sends the 11 thieves scrambling for a score to get them out of trouble.

These set up scenes are the best, as they connect nicely to the previous film. We see how everyone frittered away their spoils, such as Rusty’s (Brad Pitt) attempt to develop luxury hotels. Unable to work in the states, the group high-tails it to Amsterdam, hoping to scope out jobs that’ll settle their debt to Benedict.

There we’re introduced to one of the main antagonists: Interpol detective Isabel, played delectably by Catherine Zeta-Jones. Isabel was a former flame of Rusty’s and is hot on his posse’s trail. Also lurking in the shadows is a master thief with the name “Night Fox,” for the signature figurines he leaves at the scene of his crimes. Though this is a ridiculous moniker, you could somehow see David Niven pulling it off in a bygone era.

Strangely, with a relentless Javert on their heels, a crafty crook thwarting their efforts at every turn, and the clock ticking, the movie lacks any kind of dramatic tension. It’s in a hurry to go nowhere in particular, coasting on winking performances from its stars – particularly Matt Damon.

Mr. Damon, the only member of the cast with a recent blockbuster hit under his belt, is always a winning screen presence. But, like his co-stars, he looks like he just showed up and winged it. Even the normally flawless Don Cheadle couldn’t be bothered to improve his terrible cockney accent, and this time around turns in a dialect that rivals Dick Van Dyke’s in “Mary Poppins.”

“Ocean’s Twelve” sputters and flounders from act to act, trading in gimmicks and red herrings and forsaking the linear plot acrobatics of its predecessor. Surprise twists are tepid or, worse, alienating in-jokes that might inspire knee-slapping for the moneyed few who live inside the media fishbowl. The various cameos, while hip, fall flat.

It might seem I’m being hard on what amounts to a giant celluloid lollipop, but consider the pedigree. Rare is it that a big-budget star fest is both sweet and substantive, and “Ocean’s 11” pulled that off. Even the second-to-last scene, where our rogue’s gallery contemplate the impossible mission they just completed while standing in front of a tacky Vegas fountain, has a sweet pathos, an emotional element that was unexpected and earned. I expected more from Mr. Soderbergh than faux “edgy” camera angles, a plot that hinges on a holographic Faberge egg, and an “Entertainment Tonight” approach to casting.

That said, I loved “Ocean’s 11” so much I’ll gladly plunk down my money to see yet another sequel – which they go to pains to set up at the end of “Ocean’s Twelve.” Maybe three will be a charm.