Michael Clayton is one of those American films about American lawyers doing American lawyer stuff which isn’t usually my kind of thing. And, anyway, didn’t money-hungry men in neat suits stop being cool or interesting in about 1982? But you know what? This is a pretty decent corporate thriller: tense, exciting, involving, and best of all it stars George Clooney, who is just so hot. I recently read he’d broken a foot in a motorcycle accident and just in case he happens to be a Spectator reader — and why not?; all the best people are — I would like to say this: ‘George, I am willing and ready to nurse you. Further, I know about feet as I have two of them and would have another, if only I knew where to put it. I look forward to hearing from you but meanwhile am on my way as you don’t want to take any chances with feet, and time is of the essence.’
Now, where were we? Well, I don’t know where you were, but I was just about to give Mr Clooney a bedbath. ‘George, don’t be modest. I’m a nurse. I’ve seen it all before.’ Oh, the film. OK, in this film George plays the titular Michael Clayton, a ‘fixer’ for one of the nation’s most powerful law firms. When one of their clients has a problem, they call on him to solve it under the table. He cleans up clients’ messes, handling anything from hit-and-runs and damaging stories in the press to shoplifting wives and crooked politicians. Though burned-out and sickened by his job — poor, sad George — Clayton appears to be inextricably tied to the firm.
Anyway, the real trouble begins when one of the firm’s most senior attorneys, Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson; on utterly delicious form), goes doolally, strips in the middle of one of his most important depositions and then runs through a parking lot naked.
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