What if a juror in a cut-and-dried murder trial suddenly realised that, whoops, he was really the killer? That’s the elevator-pitch premise of Clint Eastwood’s dogged, busy courtroom drama – a jaundiced rewrite of 12 Angry Men that proceeds to ride roughshod over several plot implausibilities. Wait, wouldn’t a cursory postmortem have established the true cause of death? Objection, your honour, let’s try to keep this thing moving. Time is of the essence; Eastwood’s 94 years old. He’s not prepared to be cross-examined or sidetracked by pesky minor details.