Michael Clayton: A

In films as varied as The 40-Year Old Virgin, Rent, and Four Weddings and a Funeral has my faith been restored in filmmaking. With the former, it was in the giddy delight of a great low-down joke done right; in the latter, the sparkling joy to be gleaned when one is successfully fooled into feeling as though they are listening in on the wittiest Group of Friends ever. Well, and I say this in no uncertain, hands-shaky-with-relief, terms: Michael Clayton has restored my belief in the very sizzle of a film that pivots not on bullets or bravado, but on pure bravura technique; something remarkable that transforms the story of one New York City fixer (George Clooney) into a truly thrilling work - the thrills derived therein from the art to be viewed on screen, and the adrenaline to be sampled in your blood stream nearly every minute of the running time.

Tony Gilroy, the writer of the Bourne franchise, amazes. Here is a filmmaker who I was pretty sure could serve up a tasty cocktail of escapism, but when it came to his talents at crafting a crackling drama, I was less certain. After all, how could the tricky plotting of a super-spy (replete with obligatory, every-10-minute showdowns,) translate into a reputable movie, unfettered by popcorn junkies or Michael Bay trailers? The answer it seems, is very well. Gilroy, writing with a simmering, hard-boiled ear, threads Michael Clayton out over 120 minutes worth of shattered nerve endings and splintered timelines (a trick he no doubt picked up from his Matt Damon days). His camera moves with silky subtlely, doubling back on itself at critical plot junctures to give the audience a healthy wrench of surprise. And his narrative instincts create such a vivid world of suited-up, nuerotic corporate dealings that it's as if John Grisham were made flesh...and finally given a Brain and a Heart.

Of course, John Grisham could only ever hope to imagine a story as intriguing as this one - a plot spinning about the monumental, and monumentally important, class-action suit against UNorth, a pesticide company that's knocking off its customers with carcinogenic product. Litigating for the company is Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson), a brilliant attorney who spontaneously goes nuts (his most rapturous-insane monologue opens the film). To prevent the loss of millions (not to mention a reputation and the thought of more billable hours), Edens firm brings in their resident "janitor" - Clayton - to settle things down, reign in Edens, and prevent the client from bolting. The client itself isn't all that happy with the firm's plan, so their in-house counsel (Tilda Swinton) hires two deeply unsettling thugs to keep tabs on Clayton's operation, all the while ready to press the Big Red Button should she feel out of control (which her character does frequently, a paragon of coiled insecurity). And Clayton himself? Well, he's just a weary, working scrooge whose got a kid (Austin Williams) and a mortage to pay (or sell-off, should he need to fend off his addict-brother's loan sharks).

If, all-in-all, Michael Clayton really does sound like the greatest thing Grisham never wrote, then you have yet to witness one milisecond of Tony Gilroy's spiky, disturbing, entertaining, cynical, and edgily articulate film; heck, even those opening scenes don't do it justice, since the true trick of the director's skills doesn't emerge until much later in the game. But it is a blossoming worth sticking around for and Clooney (together with his admirably classy, seedy, co-stars) will make your viewing experience worth while. He is, remember, everything about Clayton that Clayton despises - gussied up, "fickle", truly charming - and yet the actor is also everything about the film that is great: razor-sharp and unforgettable.