David O'ConnellMichael Clayton
July 20th 2009 05:33
Tony Gilroy’s 2007 debut behind the camera is brimming with smart, very slick dialogue; some of it may come off as stagy, but by the time the noose of tension is being tightly drawn, I didn’t really care, hooked by the weight of its juicy cover-up and justifications for murder. George Clooney is the film's heart and soul, and luckily he's able to project the kind of introspective intensity required to ensure Michael Clayton is a believable, even if not entirely empathetic, character; his motivations seem dubious in the establishing scenes, though his clinical command of a situation is counterbalanced by his own weakness for a deck of cards.
Clayton is a jaded but highly proficient “fix-it” man for his law firm, a term replete with malleable justifications; he cleans up the mess of others, mockingly referred to by friend and co-worker Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) as “a janitor” - the connotations of which seem a little dismissive of his true importance - an integral component, plugging holes with occasional recognition but with neither fanfare or, to his chagrin, a shot at a partnership.
Gilroy begins the film with a 15 minute flash forward, though ending this first act with an explosion, which seen for the first time without any context to rationalise it, deprives it of real impact. But quickly the ship is righted as Gilroy sets about unravelling the sly backstory, commenced four days prior with Arthur's very public, semi-naked descent into a medication-deprived relapse; a manic-depressive episode which seems to stir his troubled conscience, illuminating his overworked mind with clarifications that must seem like divine messages from on high.
Suddenly, a case in which Arthur’s been swimming with the tide, takes on the proportions of something else: connivingly engineered, amoral culpability; swiftly, the ruthless uNorth, a profiteering chemical company and makers of a weed killer that has seemingly claimed hundreds of human victims, begin their defensive strategizing in order to minimize backlash or harm to their reputation.
The clarity of a re-awakened conscience has dangerous potential and uNorth’s reflexive measures, initiated by its edgy, bundle-of-nerves attorney, Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton), become a relentless pursuit of concealing injustice for the sake of their own hides; Arthur becomes a liability, an internally diagnosed “cancer” whose silent removal would benefit both parties.
Slowly the pieces of the puzzle come into sharper focus for Clayton who only vaguely senses the conspiracy afoot at first, but has the added insight of his long friendship with Arthur to clear away any marginal doubts of their obstructive presence. Here, Gilroy’s steady writing builds a subtle, but compelling momentum as a race to find, and gently inform authorities, of the truth becomes paramount.
This is a somber drama with the added dimensions of a thriller, and although reaching a neat, predictable conclusion, it does provide satisfaction - meeting that comforting sense of 'vengeance is sweetest when served by the just and righteous'.
Clooney wears his steely-eyed compunction like a mask and with murky grey lines of fallibility – an ostracised brother, a dud investment and up to his armpits in gambling debts – soaking him in dour duty, he follows the one clearly detectable straight line to its unequivocal conclusion, subverting the intentions of his keepers, the men assuming he’ll stay blind to the truth and follow their orders.
Swinton, as the jumpy, reluctant negotiator with shady, dark denizens of the night, and Wilkinson as the impassioned but deeply troubled Arthur, give excellent support, whilst the late Sydney Pollack adds a measure of real gravitas to the role of Clayton’s superior.
A writer with a sizable body of work already behind him (The Bourne trilogy, Proof of Life), Gilroy thrives in his first shot at the director’s chair; Michael Clayton is a fine drama and a highly entertaining one, with a compelling, watertight screenplay and tidy, unobtrusive direction. It's dense with detail yet never strays into impenetrability, with just enough flesh on its bones to make us care for Clayton's quest and Arthur's sad plight. Similarly effective, James Newton Howard's ominous, simmering electronic score creates tension of its own, whilst Robert Elswitt's wintry, reduced palette fits the tone of the film like a glove.
Clayton is a jaded but highly proficient “fix-it” man for his law firm, a term replete with malleable justifications; he cleans up the mess of others, mockingly referred to by friend and co-worker Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) as “a janitor” - the connotations of which seem a little dismissive of his true importance - an integral component, plugging holes with occasional recognition but with neither fanfare or, to his chagrin, a shot at a partnership.
Gilroy begins the film with a 15 minute flash forward, though ending this first act with an explosion, which seen for the first time without any context to rationalise it, deprives it of real impact. But quickly the ship is righted as Gilroy sets about unravelling the sly backstory, commenced four days prior with Arthur's very public, semi-naked descent into a medication-deprived relapse; a manic-depressive episode which seems to stir his troubled conscience, illuminating his overworked mind with clarifications that must seem like divine messages from on high.
Suddenly, a case in which Arthur’s been swimming with the tide, takes on the proportions of something else: connivingly engineered, amoral culpability; swiftly, the ruthless uNorth, a profiteering chemical company and makers of a weed killer that has seemingly claimed hundreds of human victims, begin their defensive strategizing in order to minimize backlash or harm to their reputation.
A defiant Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) argues with Michael Clayton (George Clooney)
The clarity of a re-awakened conscience has dangerous potential and uNorth’s reflexive measures, initiated by its edgy, bundle-of-nerves attorney, Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton), become a relentless pursuit of concealing injustice for the sake of their own hides; Arthur becomes a liability, an internally diagnosed “cancer” whose silent removal would benefit both parties.
Slowly the pieces of the puzzle come into sharper focus for Clayton who only vaguely senses the conspiracy afoot at first, but has the added insight of his long friendship with Arthur to clear away any marginal doubts of their obstructive presence. Here, Gilroy’s steady writing builds a subtle, but compelling momentum as a race to find, and gently inform authorities, of the truth becomes paramount.
This is a somber drama with the added dimensions of a thriller, and although reaching a neat, predictable conclusion, it does provide satisfaction - meeting that comforting sense of 'vengeance is sweetest when served by the just and righteous'.
The uptight Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton)
Clooney wears his steely-eyed compunction like a mask and with murky grey lines of fallibility – an ostracised brother, a dud investment and up to his armpits in gambling debts – soaking him in dour duty, he follows the one clearly detectable straight line to its unequivocal conclusion, subverting the intentions of his keepers, the men assuming he’ll stay blind to the truth and follow their orders.
Swinton, as the jumpy, reluctant negotiator with shady, dark denizens of the night, and Wilkinson as the impassioned but deeply troubled Arthur, give excellent support, whilst the late Sydney Pollack adds a measure of real gravitas to the role of Clayton’s superior.
A writer with a sizable body of work already behind him (The Bourne trilogy, Proof of Life), Gilroy thrives in his first shot at the director’s chair; Michael Clayton is a fine drama and a highly entertaining one, with a compelling, watertight screenplay and tidy, unobtrusive direction. It's dense with detail yet never strays into impenetrability, with just enough flesh on its bones to make us care for Clayton's quest and Arthur's sad plight. Similarly effective, James Newton Howard's ominous, simmering electronic score creates tension of its own, whilst Robert Elswitt's wintry, reduced palette fits the tone of the film like a glove.
Clayton with his superior Marty Bach (legendary director Sydney Pollack)
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Comment by Matt Shea
20/20 Filmsight
Still, not a bad film at all and I definitely have to agree with you regarding Gilroy's direction - after seeing this I wished he'd directed the later Bourne installments rather than Mr Shaky Greengrass.
Comment by David O'Connell
Screen Fanatic
Comment by JohnDoe
Film & TV on DVD
Great review!
From my own review of the film:
"The restrained Directorial debut of Tony Gilroy (Writer of the Jason Bourne adaptations) must be a large component in this successful, deliberate parring back of an easily verbose genre. An intelligent, introspective atmosphere makes it easy to believe this is very much a dramatised mirror of its subject.
Removing the glamour and fanfare to unfold like an anti-John Grisham adaptation, every plot point that is usually punctuated by an overture or exaggerated delivery is instead understated dictating a tone of realism."
if your interested you can read my review HERE
Comment by David O'Connell
Screen Fanatic