The Ghost Writer

Of course, one cannot help but engage in a little speculation about to what extent Roman Polanski’s recent legal travails impacted the final shape of The Ghost Writer, his first film in five years. How did his various states of arrest and incarceration influence his choices in completing the film? What does this particular tale of paranoia and deceit say about Polanski’s storied past or present psychological state? Yet without ignoring the inevitable bleeding of the personal and the artistic in the work of any filmmaker—particularly one with such identifiable auteurist markers as Polanski—one of the joys of The Ghost Writer comes from what a decidedly non-introspective work it is. Polanski here seems most invested in enveloping the audience in a state of sustained, twist-filled suspense: a goal he accomplishes with ruthless efficiency and consummate skill.

Many of Polanski’s best films owe their greatness in part to the director’s understanding of narrative pace and tone, and The Ghost Writer shows that these instincts remain scalpel-sharp. Mystery hangs in the air from the film’s first images: an ominously-abandoned car on a ferry, followed by a corpse lying on a beach, the waves lightly jostling it about. The body, we soon discover, belonged to a confidante of former British prime minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan), who was also ghost-writing Lang’s memoirs. Drowning is deemed the official cause—the man was quite drunk—but many suspect suicide. And what would have driven him to an early grave? No one seems to know, although his death suspiciously prefaces accusations that Lang was complicit in illegal renditions of suspected terrorist suspects, many of whom were later tortured.

Amidst this swirl of conspiracy, Lang’s staff approaches another writer, known simply throughout as The Ghost (a terrific Ewan McGregor), to finish the book. A veteran of such work—he previously wrote the memoir of a rambling magician—he accepts the lucrative offer and begins to re-work the existing manuscript. His interviews with Lang begin well, but the charming politician soon turns surly and unavailable as the rendition scandal continues to grow. Meanwhile, the Ghost begins his own investigation after uncovering some puzzling documents from Lang’s past amidst the possessions of his deceased predecessor, raising questions about Lang’s actions and who, exactly, might be behind his alleged crimes.

Polanski and Robert Harris (adapting his own novel) sprinkle just enough topical references throughout The Ghost Writer, slyly drawing comparisons to real-life—Lang bears more than a passing resemblance to Tony Blair—without pushing a political message that would invariably feel diluted by the film’s unremitting plot machinations. This is where Polanski’s heart truly seems to lie, and he crafts a world of entrancing anxiety. From perennially stormy skies to Lang’s coolly modernist beach house, shades of gray dominate the color palette: an elegant visual corollary to the ambiguities that the Ghost butts up against in his quest for the truth. He seems forever placed in forebodingly barren spaces, caught in Polanski’s carefully-composed frames as unseen perils churn around him.

To describe The Ghost Writer in such terms, however, is to make it sound far more somber than it really is. Menacing conspiracies and hidden agendas hum under every encounter, but Polanski films it all with a crisp economy and droll, detached sense of humor. The satisfaction comes not from aligning with the Ghost’s emotional turmoil, but following him through a booby-trapped maze of intrigue. To this end, Polanski elicits grand performances from his cast: not only Brosnan’s charmingly corrupted politician, but Olivia Williams’ as his steely, bitter wife; Kim Cattrall as Lang’s no-nonsense secretary; and Tom Wilkinson as a pompous academic with dubious government connections. In their emphasis on a perfectly-delivered line reading or theatrical gesture over finely-etched psychological portraiture, they recall the work of such classic Hollywood supporting players as Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre, whose very presence conjured up a mood of sinister, slippery mirth.

Indeed, so much of The Ghost Writer recalls an older tradition of mystery-thrillers: graceful in execution and unapologetically cynical in outlook. (Alexandre Desplat’s gloriously restless and full-bodied score also casts an appreciative backward glance to the work of composers like Bernard Herrmann.) Such films did not possess much ambition beyond guiding the viewer through an ingeniously-constructed labyrinth of red herrings and cool betrayals, and The Ghost Writer shares this relatively focused aim. But to dismiss the film as “minor Polanski” is to unfairly downplay the gleeful confidence with which he commands the screen, right up to a final twist so deliciously diabolical in its execution, I just about gasped in delight. That Polanski makes it all feel so effortless only adds to The Ghost Writer’s expertly-proportioned pleasures.

                                            Matt Connolly