The truly ironic thing about this film that reminds us how cinema can be about more than just escapism is that it was directed by a man who played Batman, one who keeps topping Sexiest Men Alive lists with extreme regularity.

Clooney is, however, the son of a journalist, and we have by now become well acquainted with his crusading side. This is decidedly his finest hour thus far, a nostalgically shot and quite flawless film that functions both as art form and morality play, half-biopic and half-Frank Capra tribute.

David Strathairn, in a performance of a lifetime, plays iconic newsman Edward R Murrow. There isn't much of a physical resemblance, but Strathairn captures the celebrated nuances of Murrow -- from the throat-clearing to the stare to the dry wit -- and, as he envelopes himself in a constant miasma of cigarette smoke, we believe in him as Murrow. And his stand against being bullied by a rogue Senator who stands against freedom itself.

Clooney, the sly devil, uses news footage to cast Senator Joseph McCarthy, the villain of the piece, as himself -- sheer genius because it would be near-impossible for any actor to play the reviled Senator without facing accusations of overexaggerating his monstrosity. The line is thus blurred between reality and drama, and the film emerges triumphant in both counts.

There is much conversation, of course, but this 93 minute film is shot stunningly in black and white by Robert Elswitt, and so gorgeous is the film that it arrests attention before Murrow does. But once that man starts speaking, you listen.

Try this video clip. Infinitely compelling stuff.

A film that, in these cynical times, reinstates faith. Not just in journalism, but in character itself.

Also Read: The Review

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