Ostensibly this has to do with a factual water-contamination case not unlike that of A Civil Action. But more centrally and essentially, it has to do with Julia Roberts's hitherto unnoticed boobs, which are pushed up, pressed together, and popped out -- where did these come from? -- in an assortment of streetwalker outfits which the financially strapped heroine sees no reason to modify ("I think I look nice") simply because she is handed a charity job as a law-office gofer. The case -- the movie -- is all about her, and never mind any victims of the contaminated water. Her personal problems. Her gumption and moxie. Her outrage. Her compassion. Her dedication. Her sacrifice. Her reward. (It is precisely there, at the very end, that the movie splits off most radically from A Civil Action, a split from the spiritual to the material: seven digits' worth.) And oh yes, it bears repeating: her boobs. All of which will no doubt be totally acceptable to the viewer who wants only to identify with the protagonist and to soak up the vicarious flattery. Albert Finney, as the obligatory attorney (i.e., necessary evil) on the case, is his usual commanding self, though humiliatingly subordinated to Roberts. Director Steven Soderbergh, too, while he oversees some fine shots of tacky, ugly, desolate So-Cal scenery, has had to pack up all that nonlinear fancywork he was fiddling around with in The Limey and Out of Sight. This is, don't ever forget it, a Julia Roberts vehicle, and her director must buckle down to the straightforward task of emotional coercion. Aaron Eckhart, Marg Helgenberger, Peter Coyote. (2000) — Duncan Shepherd
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