Review - Michael Clayton

HE SAID:

There’s a by-now familiar narrative trick played in Michael Clayton: The film’s opening sequence presents us with characters and situations that take on a new, even opposite meaning when the same scenes are shown later, in context to a greater portion of the plot. Two movies in a row now I’ve seen this, and I can only assume that against the accumulation of a hundred years worth of rehashed, reassembled, and regurgitated storylines, the cleverness it takes to produce a linear narrative delivering even the minimum amount of surprise audiences demand may now be in short supply. After all, how many times can some Psycho commit murder while imagining he’s actually his mother without the audience catching on? Really, just one.

More and more this jigsaw puzzle approach to plot construction feels like cheating. But in Michael Clayton, the doubling back shifts the audience's view not just of plot, but of particular character traits. That’s sort of a new wrinkle. For instance, perpetual ice queen Tilda Swinton's character, at first blush, appears downright sympathetic as a corporate lawyer anxious about delivering a speech in front of fellow bigwigs. And George Clooney as the eponymous Michael Clayton (no longer a working title, we must assume, now that the film's  in actual release. Were the writers already on strike? Note to Hollywood: For $10.50, I enjoy a title) quickly softens into sentimentality when he stops his car to admire some horses on the side of the road and stare into the landscape. Later, however, we discover Swinton’s anxiety stems from something altogether more sinister than public speaking jitters, and that Clooney’s sensitivity is multi-layered – a mixture of guilt, regret, relief, fear, and unwelcome self-knowledge.

The best films these days deliver on character, not story. Clooney proves an excellent vehicle for this type of delving. His minimalist style coupled with golden boy looks put one in the mind of Paul Newman, a very good film actor in my book. Clooney has mastered the art of letting the audience project its own feelings onto him. For some actors (Harrison Ford, say), it’s a case of nice house, nobody home. But just enough boyish indulgence bubbles up through Clooney's cracks to communicate something simmering beneath. The very last shot is a lengthy close-up of Michael Clayton in the back seat of a cab; it plays something like the ending of The Graduate, in which Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross sit passively in the back of a bus, just a hint of self satisfaction wafting across Hoffman's mug. Not everyone can pull this off. But Clooney’s a true movie star. And he knows how to pick a script. Not so easy; Hollywood hotshots from Ben Affleck to Robert DeNiro routinely muff this important part of the process.

The film itself wants to be a tough look at a morally compromised individual. Professionally, Clayton’s on the margins --  a fixer on call for special assignments, such as hooking up attorneys to the one connection who can cut their client a break. Or running a search and retrieve mission involving the firm’s off-his-meds-and off the reservation lead defense attorney (Tom Wilkinson) in a lawsuit against their chemical company client. Most would call this dirty work, but Clayton’s boss, played by Sydney Pollock, euphemistically dubs it a “niche.” (Speaking of niches, Pollock himself now occupies one called “the powerful-but-not-too-evil son of a bitch” character.)

But the Hollywood hedge here is that Michael Clayton’s really a sweetheart in his personal life. He’s a divorced dad (tough for any film character to squander likability dealt that hand by a screenwriter); plus he’s taking the heat with loan sharks on behalf of his former business partner and drug-addicted brother. And you never really see Clooney do anything appalling – there are only vague allusions.

But this doesn't derail one particularly effective moment that lies at the core of the film. Here, Clayton's finally corraled the peripatetic Wilkinson. This guy’s had a Network moment, seeing the world and his place in it for what it really is. Clayton reads him the riot act, topping it off with “I’m not the enemy.” “Then who are you?” Wilkinson shoots back. He’s saying, at a certain point, you can’t participate in what’s going on and still claim you’re just a nice guy with a gift of gab who knows the score but isn’t really in the game. Wilkinson cuts to the truth: Clayton’s “niche” is that of a mere bag man. This unveiling has its opposite in an exchange exchange between Tilda Swinton and a truly amoral fixer. (Let’s see a film about him, next time). Swinton’s lawyer gropes for the right words to ask how far her hired hand will go in neutralizing the threat posed by Wilkinson. Finally grasping what’s being requested, the sociopath assures her, “We deal in absolutes.” Not a particularly original Orwellian point, but Swinton imbues it with a certain oily cowardice that makes it fascinating to watch.

I liked Michael Clayton, if only because it was a hundred times better than The Brave One. That really sucked. JB

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Comments

[Harold]

That's a wonderfully articulate, thoughtful review. I'd love to read more insightful criticism like this. But I have one question: Where's the emmer-effing SHE SAID?

[Emily]

I just saw this tonight, and liked it a lot less than you did. I thought it used a confusing narrative structure because there was no there there in the weak story.

I do agree with you about the title! But my note to Hollywood is: If I'm paying $10.50 to see a George Clooney movie, I'd like to see his devilish, gorgeous smile at least one in the 2 hours.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but it was no "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead." Thumbs down.