"Michael Clayton" is an odd duck - a film with almost no sympathetic characters. Even when it's people try to do the right thing, they often end up causing chaos or harm. "There's too much confusion here; I can't get no release," as Dylan once said in other circumstances. Michael is the only one in the movie who doesn't say out loud - until he has to - what he is. He's the guy he never wanted to become, and he's in everyone's pocket because he let himself get there. Everyone else sees him clearly. When his boss asks him to help out to arrange a co-worker's wake, Clooney's face collapses - he thought he was an attorney; turns out he's a party planner.
Sydney Pollack's character believes that the end will always justify the means. Tom Wilkinson's doomed crazy do-gooder gets it, finally, but it's too late for him. Clooney has two brothers - the good one (the cop) and the bad one. We know he's bad because we see that he's a lapsed addict. He fell off the wagon and the bar that he and Michael were partners in has collapsed. Clooney's a gambler, though. Maybe that's why the bar went down the toilet. We see him at the table trying to win back the money he'd borrowed to settle the bar's closing debts, but that's a wash. Finally, Michael's redeemed, but what to do now? He's calling a cab.
Tilda Swinton's bitch on wheels just wants to get the job done. She's
no different, really, than Pollack, just less lucky. Given the chance,
she oozes so easily over to the dark side that she doesn't even know
it's happening. When she's finally called on it, she collapses like it
matters to her.
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