Michael Clayton — movie review
I don’t think I’d have much respect for George Clooney if he had remained a fluff celeb cashing in on his devilish smirks and self-effacing clever humor. Instead he ambitiously strives to pursue political platforms, balancing entertainment and ethics. (We share a birthdate, along with Freud and Rudolph Valentino, thinker and feeler respectively, so I feel a little akin and a little proud). Michael Clayton is a none too shabby effort (led by the remarkable screenplay and direction of Tony Gilroy), embroiling corruption and redemption on both national and personal levels.
Michael Clayton (Clooney), up to his eyeballs in debt from a previous gambling addiction and present sour restaurateur deal with his deadbeat brother (not to mention alimony payments), is reluctantly obligated (by deliciously sardonic Sydney Pollack) to bail unworthy wealthy punks out of sticky situations as a “fixer” of a bigwig law firm. Hardly a satisfying occupation for a man who has troubles of his own.
Clayton soon finds that his troubles are microscopic when faced with the inner turmoil imploding within his employer’s top litigator Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson*, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) who not only discovers he’d been defending a deceitful gigantor corporation for years (alongside prim primed primped puppet Karen Crowder [amaaazing Tilda Swinton]), but that he’s in love with one of the members of the class action lawsuit filed against said gigantor company. In addition, Edens goes on a manic naked rampage and crispy baguette binge (a photo of Wilkinson shuffling through an alleyway with twenty loaves tucked under his arm was one of the reasons I wanted to see this movie, no joke. I might have changed my mind if I had seen a still of the former scene).
Everyone, including Michael Clayton, dismisses Edens’ antics as a byproduct of his bipolar disorder, but it is Edens’ seeming gibberish that brings undesired clarity to their realm. His revealing displays justified by powerful release of altruistic vigilance and an illuminated justice unattainable by any other major player in the entire movie, not because they are unsuccessful in their stations, but because they are too successful in blurring the lines between principles and job performance.
Michael Clayton is the ultimate moralistic exercise in the corporate tradition of CYOA, or Covering Your Own Ass.
*Tom Wilkinson better be at least nominated for Best Supporting Actor. Whether he’s spitting out a solid soliloquy or stripping to his skivvies, I had nothing but respect for him. Here’s hoping Tilda Swinton and Sydney Pollack receive nods as well. Oh, and I guess Clooney had something to do with it, too. ;)
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