Fortunately, I hit upon a movie that actually lived up to my expectations. Erin Brockovich is a terrific movie. A character in The Player might pitch it as "A Civil Action meets Working Girl," but I would never be so reductionist. (Still, I can't help pointing out that it posits the Working Girl theory that you don't need book-larnin' if you've got gumption, which I find deeply depressing as I write out my student loan checks every month, like maybe I wouldn't have had to mortgage my future for the next 10 to 15 years if I were a little sassier.)
Though it's a serious and compelling story -- hard-luck Erin finds respect and admiration through helping people whose water was contaminated by a corporation that lied to them (duh -- that's what corporations do, isn't it?) -- it's also quite funny. I loved it because it reminded me of something that I feel like I've been forgetting for a long time: that these environmental issues we debate endlessly are not abstract problems. Julia Roberts is at her best when she shows Erin's frustration at trying to communicate her sense of outrage to the lawyers who see this as just another case. To the lawyers, each plaintiff is a set of facts in a file folder; to Erin, each one is a person who suffers and hopes and just wants justice.
Truly great acting from all concerned: Roberts (this is probably her best role ever, giving her the chance to be funny, passionate, flirtatious, strong, and brave), Albert Finney as her boss, an unrecognizable Aaron Eckhart (In the Company of Men) as Erin's biker boyfriend, Marg Helgenberger as one of the victims. And my father is wrong; I was mesmerized by Julia Roberts' breasts. Not that her acting isn't great, because it is, but there was something weirdly hypnotic about her emphatic cleavage. Wonderbra should be given a supporting credit -- pun intended.
Audience rant: Did you know Tuesday night is Idiot Night at AMC Theaters? Either that, or there was a taping of "The Jerry Springer Show" nearby that was all full, because my theatermates were constantly hooting, shouting variants of "You go, girl!", or doing that "oooooooo" sound that means "he just said something that's gonna make her bitch-slap him." And why do the old people who smell like two-day-old Taco Bell always want to sit right near me?
Personal rant: How unpleasantly ironic that Brockovich's bonus for helping to expose environmental contamination is an SUV.
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