A new Clint Eastwood movie is not one without baggage. An icon of 1960’s cinema who’s now decades into a career behind the camera, The Man With No Name has afforded us all ample opportunity to appraise his work, though his legacy might not mean as much to younger filmgoers as the peaks and valleys of his post-2000 output. Since the turn of the millennium, an Eastwood directorial effort has been as likely to merit Oscar plaudits (Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby, American Sniper) and audience adoration (Gran Torino, Sully, The Mule) as audible snores (Hereafter, Invictus) and full-throated derision (J. Edgar, Richard Jewel). He also had quite the fight with a chair, and while the twelve years that have passed since his infamous appearance at the 2012 RNC would seem to view the whole affair as water under the bridge, his perception as Hollywood’s surly conservative grandpa hasn’t moved an inch. Perhaps it’s our collective uneasiness over the auteur’s politics that led the higher-ups at Warner Brothers to sweep Juror #2 under the rug, only appearing in a small number of stateside theaters before being unceremoniously dumped on MAX. When you’ve got that much luggage to carry, finding a solid resting place proves paramount.

Another potential reason for stranding Clint’s latest in the netherworld between streaming and theatrical releases would be a lack of quality, but Juror dispenses with those concerns in the early going. Or at least distracts from them by virtue of a gold-plated elevator pitch, which sees Justin Kemp (Nicolas Hoult), a recovering alcoholic and soon-to-be father, occupy the titular position in a Georgian murder trial. Despite his early dismay at having been selected to serve, the low-end journalist is compelled by the details of the crime, which relate to a lost night of his own just a little too closely for comfort. Splitting the difference between noble proponent of civic duty and amateur sleuth, Kemp’s dogged refusal to simply swipe guilty along with the rest of his cohort leads to a delayed verdict, with revelations aplenty accompanying the elongated proceedings.

It’s a risky gambit for a white collar filmmaker like Eastwood to take on a yarn that’s so intimately concerned with minute details, but his preternatural understanding of pot boiler mechanics was never in question. Playing out like a classed-up airport novel, #2 isn’t built for friction so much as aerodynamics, one scene bleeding into the next with tension and momentum to spare. That it does so without ever ratcheting up the MPH is a testament to both helmer and screenwriter Jonathan Abrams, who deftly parcels out information with a mastery of measurement and timing more befitting of a baker than a scribe. These are elemental components of cinematic function, and would likely go unremarked upon in the 90’s heyday of courtroom thrillers and interpersonal dramas. In the year of our lord 2024, where spectacle and bravado rule the day, they’re almost shocking. If you google ‘they don’t make ‘em like they used to,’ a picture of this movie’s poster ought to pop up.

The image would be honed in on Hoult, and for as centered as Clint is in any discourse concerning the film, its star is worthy of his own spotlight. A favorite of both burgeoning greats like Yorgos Lanthimos and Robert Eggers and old lions like Eastwood and George Miller, the former child star has largely steered his career in the direction of oddity and largess. His pivot toward a quiet, everyman performance works like gangbusters, weaponizing his ocean blue eyes and hereto unknown ability to hold a camera’s gaze without moving a muscle. His subtlety and visible introspection provide an ideal counterpoint to the other actors in attendance, with J.K. Simmons floating on a cloud of rugged charisma, and Toni Collette going for broke as a southern prosecution attorney with an eye on career advancement.

The Australian performer’s accent work is truly something to behold, and for as tight a grip as the 94-year-old Eastwood has the vast majority of his latest picture, some of the fine-grain stuff still slips through his fingers. Justin’s wife, gamely played by Zoey Deutch, who has unmissable chemistry with Hoult, is a cardboard cutout of maternal grace, offering context for her husband’s plight without an interior life to call her own. Same goes for the rest of the jury, each embodying familiar members of society through broad archetypes, with Leslie Bibb’s community-organizing Karen and Hedy Nasser’s vapid material girl providing unintentional comedy. But laugh is a laugh, and the way Juror #2 converts its minimal missteps into valid forms of entertainment is proof of an otherwise sturdy foundation, wherein nitpicks and guffaws are absorbed into its involving whole. With a narrative this juicy and well-told, it’s easy to forgive, and perhaps even revel in, both that trademark ugly lighting, and Colette’s heat-check of a performance. 

Her bombast might even be necessary, utilizing a character whose worldview would presumably be in line with the director’s to articulate the point. Juror #2 proves remarkably apolitical; instead of choosing a side of the aisle, it laments our modern state of affairs wholesale, with bad actors on every side of the equation. A page-turner with a dour heart, the line-straddling here makes for an odd final note if this turns out to be Eastwood’s last ride, but nowhere near as strange as the trepidation on the part of Warners. They must have already made up their minds, like the rest of us, and relegated Clint to the dustbin of movie history, unaware that he could still be so quick on the draw. Juror #2 isn’t a right-leaning lecture or a barely lucid grasp at former glories, but it isn’t a grand statement either. It’s a riveting morality tale, less keen on ideological extrapolation than keeping eyes glued to the screen and butts pasted to seats. Remember those?