Ten to one odds that writer, and now director, Tony Gilroy is a Coen Brothers fan. He’s got an undeniable talent for wordsmithing, pacing and mood. Having worked in the Hollywood grist mill for years, he’s been sorrowfully squandered, making the most of thankless jobs hidden in the shadow of better known authors, adapting material by the likes of Stephen King and Robert Ludlam for the screen, or, worse, being chain-ganged as one of the half dozen monkeys responsible for making “Armageddon” the pointed observational that it was. Born and raised in New York, but now working in sunny California, it’s not a difficult stretch to imagine that his own experience in the industry has been fairly Barton Fink-ish.

Having done his time, it would seem that he’s finally being given his due. He’s made some powerful friends along the way, not the least of which is Steven Soderbergh, a proven chance-taker (and Clooney leash-holder) who offered Gilroy full reign to realize the “Michael Clayton” story exactly as he envisioned it. As a first time director, Gilroy really comes out swinging. Bravely somber, smart and reflective, “Michael Clayton” is nothing less than a triumph. Expertly balancing issues of global corporate corruption with the internal struggles of the various attorneys charged with protecting it, Gilroy shows us a grim, and gritty world of seemingly inescapable moral decay. George Clooney has never been better than in the title role—a “fixer” for a Manhattan law firm, with a particular knack for cleaning up messes that troublesome clients get themselves into. Having spent over a decade at the firm, he’s plainly hit the top of his ladder. Deeply in debt after a fumbled bid to open a bar as a “walk away” option, we find him painted into a dark, grey corner with diminishing alternatives and no clear direction. In an early scene, the navigation system of his company Mercedes blinks out. It’s a brilliant evocation of the status of his own life’s compass, and we later discover how very real a sign this turns out to be that his way has been so positively lost.

His firm, on the brink of a critical merger and of settling an epic class action suit against a multinational killer chemical manufacturing client, sets Clayton to resolve the particularly sticky predicament of a colleague (Tom Wilkinson) who’s gone off his meds at the 11th hour. The key player in the defense of the nefarious company in question, he has discovered incontrovertible evidence of their complicity in hundreds of deaths, and after years spent building a case for them, realizing how deep their poison goes—not just out in the abstract world, but right into his own heart—he finally just cracks. Now, lawyers in general are scary enough. Crazy lawyers, it turns out, are downright terrifying. Surrounded, however, by weasels, snakes and backstabbers, the insanities he spews as he runs naked in the streets are maybe the only honest sentiments expressed by anyone involved. It’s a fabulous turnaround to see how these steely-eyed legal eagles cower in the face of true human emotion.

Substituting attorneys for mob bosses, “Michael Clayton” holds all the challenge and complexity of the Coen’s early “Miller's Crossing,” with distinct parallels between the protagonists (hopeless debt, powerlessness in the company of the powerful, and a proclivity for losing money at the poker table are among them). Although primarily set in the greasily dreary New York, the stony cold backgrounds echo the empty desolation of “Fargo,” and with similar effect. Gilroy’s assured and deliberate use of color, sound and music all feed the greater picture and reveal a surprising maturity of craftsmanship coming from a freshman director. It can be no coincidence that they’ve released this movie now, with awards season so nearly upon us.