the last movie i saw

One of the best columns I wrote for my college newspaper was called "Movies by Myself" (named after that great Rufus Wainwright song) about my love of going to the movies alone. After two nights of non-moderate fun (Thursday was happy hour and a gimlet-laden bad date and Friday was Lower East Side bar-hopping and a party in Chelsea in which I fell for the hostess' boyfriend) I needed a quiet night. So, last night I went uptown and caught Michael Clayton, the new George Clooney legal thriller.

It's a slick, stylish character-driven thriller that resembles a cold, steely hybrid of Michael Mann's The Insider and a cynical, unsentimental Erin Brockovich. Clooney is the titular "fixer" for a high-profile New York law firm that is in the midst of representing a corporation being sued for poisoning hundreds of farmers with a lethal weed killer. When the lead lawyer for the defense (Tom Wilkinson) goes crazy and threatens to leak incriminating evidence to the prosecution, the corporate backstabbing takes a literal turn. It's high-intensity filmmaking with stellar performances. I wouldn't be surprised if Wilkinson nets awards attention - the audience I saw the movie with really connected with the performance. Tilda Swinton, as the chief counsel for the corporation, is also excellent (as usual). It's a chilly exercise in malevolence, and I can't remember a time when an actress' physical transformation has been such a crucial part of the performance. With sweaty armpits and significant belly fat, the art house goddess really looks like a fierce career woman beginning to crack.