In director Steven Soderbergh's diverse body of work, there emerges one unifying theme: His protagonists are all loners, all male. Boys, it's time to say hello to "Erin Brockovich."
Erin (Julia Roberts, fabulous) is a firestorm of femininity, a genuine sizzler. She's a constant reminder of the difference between a bitch and a son of one, and she's clinical proof of the distinction between a body and a bod. In defense of the invariably tight, cleavage-squeezing outfits she favors in the workplace, she offers this: "I think I look nice. And as long as I have one ass instead of two, I'll wear what I like."
Erin has the loner thing down, though. When her new boyfriend tries to compliment her, she cautions, "Don't be too nice to me, OK? It makes me nervous."
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Roberts' vivid characterization anchors this smartly scripted, sharply directed hybrid of legal drama and character study. The lawsuit that anchors the fact-based plot is both predictable and familiar, with a refrain culled from "A Civil Action:" Don't drink the water! But Erin's angle freshens the much-told tale.
That's because she's scrappier than the scrappiest lawyer. An unemployed, twice-divorced mother of three whose only credential is her stint as a beauty queen, her legal career begins when, in desperation, she demands a job from Ed Masry (Albert Finney), the head of a small law firm who recently lost a personal-injury suit on her behalf.
Erin soon shows more initiative than an ordinary file clerk. She pays attention to the papers she shuffles, and asks to do additional research on a case involving the efforts of Pacific Gas & Electric (PG&E) to buy the homes of people who live near its Hinkley, Calif., plant. She spends a week outside the office interviewing clients and collecting evidence, and, for her efforts, is fired.
But then Ed realizes Erin may be onto something and hires her back, beginning her series of honorary promotions to research assistant, paralegal and withering negotiator. It seems PG&E uses a toxic variant of chromium to clean its equipment and has allowed the chemical to seep into the groundwater, all the while telling the many cancer-stricken residents of Hinkley that the chromium is good for them.
Erin has a way of lighting a fire under her crusty boss and relating to the plaintiffs with true sympathy, but more intriguing is the effect of the long hours on her family - the kids aren't used to money but they're used to Mom picking them up from the babysitter's at five. Luckily, her neighbor, George (Aaron Eckhart), a kindly motorcycle enthusiast, talks her into letting him watch the kids. Eventually, he also becomes her lover, but their situation is tenuous. For the first time, Erin has the ability to take a man for granted.
This is the best work Roberts has ever done. She sustains a delicacy of emotion that she has only glimpsed before, as Erin realizes that her passion for the case inevitably serves to create distance from her children. One late-working night, George tells Erin over the phone that her youngest daughter has said her first word. "It was intense," George keeps repeating, but as Soderbergh's camera lingers on Roberts' face, you realize he has no idea how intense it really is.
Eckhart refreshingly defies stereotype in his portrayal of George, and Finney embodies the career attorney with aplomb. As someone who has spent 40 years examining both sides of every case, Ed has a clear understanding of his strengths and limitations.
Soderbergh lets the material speak for itself; this is his least visually sophisticated film and will probably be called his least personal. But his eye for composition and his keen editor's sensibility remain. Furthermore, his ability to mainline his characters' emotions directly to the viewer is more apparent than ever, and if that's not personal filmmaking, I don't know what is.
Another smart touch: the courtrooms. Soderbergh and screenwriter Susannah Grant (co-scribe of "Ever After") know we've seen far too many impassioned closing arguments, and they limit the courtroom activity in the PG&E case to an important but mundane hearing about halfway through. Better yet, it's not set in a movie courtroom, with grandiloquent furniture, dramatic lighting and a larger-than-life judge. It's a small, functional, fluorescent-lit chamber; the judge announces his ruling and goes about his business.
Movie titles that take the full name of the main character usually come off as unimaginative cop-outs. (Couldn't "Jerry Maguire" have been "The Agent"?) But for "Erin Brockovich," the title fits like one of her hip-hugging skirts: It's bold and uncompromising, not to mention hard to spell. "Erin Brockovich" belongs to Erin and Erin only, and if you don't like it, it's your problem.
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