Let me allay some fears right away: Ocean’s 8 is fun. The sequel (of sorts) to Steven Soderbergh’s three Ocean’s films, this time with a mostly female cast of smooth criminals, is a lark and a laugh, an airy caper featuring a bunch of actors you love and a lot of great clothes. Who can argue with that, in June or any other time of year? In that way, Ocean’s 8 is a worthy continuation of a hallowed brand. So, breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no disaster here, no regrettable misfire to be chagrined about. Phew.

That said, I do wish Ocean’s 8 were a little more than fun. Directed by Soderbergh’s friend and frequent collaborator Gary Ross, the film makes some gestures toward Soderbergh’s snappy visual and narrative style, his zooms and cuts and other syncopated rhythms. But they’re only gestures, loving but half-hearted. The movie looks fine but flat, which has the unfortunate (and unintentional, I’d hope) effect of making it feel as though a mostly women-led Ocean’s movie doesn’t deserve the same luxe finishings as Clooney and the boys. (Ocean’s Eleven was given a higher budget, 17 years ago, than Ocean’s 8 was now.)

Plot-wise, the movie lacks for any of the grander sleights of hand and logical leaps of the other Ocean’s movies. Mind you, very little in those films bears the weight of scrutiny, but at least they provided pleasingly intricate knots to pick through. Ocean’s 8, written by Ross and Olivia Milch, goes a simpler route, paring down the mechanics of its heist and fixing problems quickly and easily. Something about the film feels less thorough, less nourishing, as if it doesn’t trust its audience to contend with something more complicated. Or it could just be that Ross and Milch have written a weaker script than what’s come before. Either way, it feels dismayingly pointed that this Ocean’s movie, of all the Ocean’s movies, is the one that gets the more basic treatment.

So the film is certainly not without its faults. But many of them are covered up, in the moment anyway, by a sterling cast. Sandra Bullock, sardonic and cool with the faint hum of a sad secret, plays Debbie Ocean, sister to Danny Ocean and recent parolee. We eventually find out how she ended up in the clink, a backstory that’s slightly, but not entirely satisfyingly, woven into the present. But mostly Debbie’s journey in the film is her assembling a team for a bold, fabulous bit of thievery involving a version of the real-life Met Gala and a diamond necklace bigger than my apartment. Bullock handles all this scheming with restrained humor, never sinking into the ring-a-ding smugness that often tainted the earlier Ocean’s movies.

She’s joined most closely by Cate Blanchett as Lou, a slinky Chrissy Hynde-type who’s skeptical about Debbie’s plan but drawn in nonetheless. We sense an attraction there, perhaps the ghost of a past romance flickering between them, but the film doesn’t explore that dynamic the way that, in theory, a more invested, and also more freewheeling, movie might. Still, we get a lot from Blanchett’s lounge-lizard vibe, coy and pragmatic, as she does a lot of good leaning in a series of crisply tailored suits. We hope for an Ocean’s 9, if only so we can get to know a bit more about Lou.