Public Speaking: A Review of 'Michael Clayton'

In Michael Clayton the eponymous ‘fixer’ at a prestigious law firm based in New York begins to see his world crumble, an old friend having slipped off into the deep end thanks either to the crushing weight of his sins of silence or having gone off his meds.   Clayton, played by George Clooney, is having a hard enough time as it is, debts up to his eyeballs and a family circle that veers between judgemental and drug-addled. His attempts to hold his own life together form the core of what we observe on screen, but the film keeps pulling away, visualising moments of bizarre pathological hysteria, seen as the consequence of an unpleasant corporate world that surrounds and bleeds into everything.

At no point do we see any of the victims of the deadly toxins to be found in the fertiliser pedalled by bulletproof corporation U/north. The story takes place in boardrooms, restaurants, hotel rooms, and other people’s living rooms. While evoking Erin Brockovich in plot, Clayton keeps away from the collateral damage caused by his law firm and their clients – fellow attorney Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) has connected with the poor souls, and the result is more than moral realignment: it is a total psychotic break.  Wilkinson’s performance in this role is both grandstanding and convincing, his opening monologue – set to images of an empty law office – is an incredible piece of cinema, quietly compelling in its compulsive mania.

Yet writer-director Tony Gilroy does not preach like a man possessed; rather, he films like a methodical, enormously capable, brittle first-timer – like the character of Karen Crowder, a legal professional within U/north who is completely out of her depth.  Moments where we see her carefully arrange her clothes for a business meeting, or obsessively rehearse answers to a forthcoming Q&A session make far more of an impact than Clayton’s debt-problems or broken family.   His afflictions are temporary, and will either get solved or be his downfall by film’s end; Crowder’s quest for a permanent suitability is a far deeper, more horrifying suffering that cannot be admitted, let alone corrected in two easy hours.  When her character is forced to decide whether to end a life for the sake of her job, Michael Clayton finds the sting in its tale: this is not a story about the ethical lapse of doing nothing while evil is in your midst, its about the temptation to choose evil because it is what is expected of you.

The film is structured around a series of displays of intent, beginning with Eden’s frenzied explanation of his motives, a speech in which Clayton is addressed and examined, but not seen – when the story finds him a few minutes later he is revealed like just another cog in the machine: how could he possibly deserve the honour of Eden’s confession? We perhaps expect the film to show us how he becomes worthy, but in a sly joke the opening scenes are a flash-forward, the Clayton sitting at the poker table already having heard the rousing call to arms of Eden; and yet, there he sits.   The finale, too, plays games with the preparation and delivery of vital information and audiences in and out of sight.

Gilroy’s direction is crisp and exciting, occasionally unfolding events and motivations in wordless passages of surprising weight and tension.       His script is intelligent and polished, but for me contained one too many leftovers from his work on the Bourne series, assassinations shown that, for all their effectiveness, should have been concealed.  The best writing comes in the true-to-life moments like a father insisting to his son that he is better than both his father and the people his father hangs around with, or the frustration felt between friends when one betrays another.  A shame, then, that the tale is so well-worn, resembling Soderbergh’s aforementioned work, as well as Clooney’s recent Syriana, and any number of seventies thrillers starting with The Days of the Condor.

A surprisingly strong showing in 2008’s Oscar nominations will hopefully bring the film to a wide audience, which Swindon’s performance particularly deserves.  The whole work will, I suspect, reward further study, and indicates the proper introduction of a mature and disciplined presence behind the camera.