Polanski’s ‘Ghost Writer’ a haunting and enigmatic accusation

Polanski’s ‘Ghost Writer’ a haunting and enigmatic accusation

Jeremy Clemmons

Staff Writer

Roman Polanski’s “The Ghost Writer,” based not on the Philip Roth novel, but rather Robert Harris’ political thriller, “The Ghost,” is a curious film about displacement and secrecy. Both are concepts not far removed from the velvet-tipped gloves of Mr. Polanski himself, who has had to both displace (to anywhere but the U.S. although he is currently under house arrest in Switzerland) and to also keep disgustingly mum about his much-publicized rape of a young girl some thirty-odd years ago.

All of this quite possibly feeds into to a lingering resentment, or ressentiment, as portrayed in the film’s haunting atmosphere – the cold, immaculate interiors, the thrashing rain beating over the Eastern seaboard in relentless anguish. This is a United States shown at its most grimy, its most unforgiving. All of the principal characters (with the exception of Ewan McGregor) are exiled in one way or another from their native Britain, shacking up on the American shore out of necessity for refuge. The murky waters here are a constant reminder of all that remains soiled and unfinished.

It is no surprise the film opens in those waters: its contamination is established from an immediate shot of a lifeless body turning in the early morning tide. The corpse is, or was, a ghostwriter (an author who pens, without popular recognition, another person’s story) for ex-Prime Minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan). But a dead body is the least of Lang’s worries. He is desperately caught up in an international court investigation for war crimes (rendition, torture—the usual post-9/11 spiel) committed during his term. Naturally, a warm memoir would serve as a tonic for this swarming madness.

Alas, another ‘ghost’ is needed to complete the project. In comes McGregor, the unnamed apparition (referred to in the novel as ‘the Ghost’), whose intelligence and speedy writing skills are employed to finish the job.

However, more is left behind from the previous ghostwriter than an unfinished manuscript and a dead body. Troublesome clues and mysteries arise, like Lang’s curious rise to prominence in politics and, of course, his peculiar sympathies towards the United States and the war on terror (especially given his Labour Party affiliations).

Also waiting behind closed doors and mouths is his beautiful wife, Ruth (Olivia Williams), whose advice and strong support for her husband is of curious origin and persuasion. Tom Wilkinson as Paul Emmett appears late in an already longish film, and the mere intrusion of such a prominent character (and actor) perhaps compels too much towards obvious conspiracy than is necessary.

“The Ghost Writer” is representative of a specific anti-Americanism that is popular in mainstream cinema as of late (one waits patiently while Hollywood digests life after Bush the second). However, this particular British brand is more decidedly progressive in its approach, even if it condemns policy more along the lines of collusion and deceit than political inadequacy. Much of this discontent surely shows through in the film’s monochrome color scheme and unsympathetic characters, but also in its comic fatalism: the ending shot is a darkly humorous payoff (even for those who couldn’t stand the rest of it).

Nonetheless, images of water-boarding and explicit torturing, of international outrage and political fervor, proliferate in “The Ghost Writer.” If this is an denunciation on Tony Blair, it’s an interesting one. Is it vindictive? Sympathetic? Something else? It’s hard to tell. The reason is both the depths of betrayal and intrigue that lay behind the movie’s shifty plot. Adam Lang/Tony Blair is presented as a beaten wreck, yes, but also as fiercely committed (one could even say seduced) by an unshakeable belief in the honor of his actions. As Lang defiantly leans towards a skeptical McGregor at one point, he argues, “I did what I had to!”

It’s an uncompromising world, and an even more uncompromising political landscape. Is director Polanski actually Blair, trapped in hopeless exile for crimes he didn’t ‘really’ commit? Maybe – maybe not. What we do know from this film is that there is no real sanctuary from our most terrible decisions; that the bleak sand and surly waters merely serve to keep us indoors, where we are left to endlessly confront the nightmares we’ve left behind.