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.

The rest of the gang comes together swiftly: Mindy Kaling as a compromised jeweler, Rihanna as a weed-smoking computer hacker, Awkwafina as a caustic pickpocket, Sarah Paulson as some kind of merchandise-hoarding wholesale-goods fencer, and a birdish Helena Bonham Carter as a disgraced fashion designer in need of a quick payday. What a group! And when Ocean’s 8 lets its cast loose, the movie crackles and zings, becoming the clever, easygoing comedy we’ve long hoped it would be. I wish only that moments like that arose a bit more frequently in the film—or, you know, that that mood was sustained throughout. As is, Ocean’s 8 is more devoted to process than patter, more concerned with moving the story along than fleshing out and reveling in the world it hastily builds.

Also appearing in the movie is Anne Hathaway, playing swanning movie star Daphne Kluger, who will be wearing the sought-after necklace the night of the big job. Any further explanation of how Daphne fits into the story would be a spoiler (though you could count the number of actresses listed before Hathaway in this review and make a safe guess), but know that Hathaway is marvelous in the role. At first it seems she’s just doing an easy bit of haughty imperiousness, but then she gradually infuses that caricature with richly amusing dashes of an almost kinky quirk. She has one scene in particular in which an entirely sexier, more dangerous version of the movie is conjured up—all done through Hathaway’s shifts in breath and bearing. The scene is almost too good for Ocean’s 8, while also proving vital to the film’s success. Hathaway is having a great time, and we’re eager to join her.

There’s a good deal of that happening here, a kind of projection that lets the movie we want Ocean’s 8 to be somehow stand in for the movie that Ocean’s 8 actually is. I left the theater thinking, I liked it! But the charge of the movie had mostly fizzled by the time I got to the subway. Fashionable and slick and capable of loopy wit, Ross’s film offers up the trappings of what should make an Ocean’s movie sing. But it never hits the note fully. I hope the excellent cast won’t be blamed for that, as the cast of the recent Ghostbusters remake was blamed for that movie’s failures. Because the problem lies more with the guy steering the ship, who does a competent job—again, the movie is fun!—but then figures his work done. These actresses deserve way more than that. If a sequel’s on the table, the cast should band together and demand equal Soderbergh for equal work.