So-so material elevated by stirring direction, or formally
impeccable craftsmanship wasted on a sluggish suspense yarn? No matter your
glass-half-whatever perspective, The
Ghost Writer functions largely as a showcase for its under-house-arrest
helmsman Roman Polanski, whose latest is a subtle visual stunner awash in creeping paranoia
and anxiety. Hired to ghost-pen the autobiography of a recent Tony Blair-ish British
Prime Minister (Pierce Brosnan) under fire for alleged war-on-terror human
rights violations – a job that opened after the original scribe died under
mysterious circumstances – an unnamed writer (Ewan McGregor) soon finds himself
entangled in a web of political and romantic intrigue. Despite hot-button parallels,
Polanski isn’t interested in dissecting current military and homeland security issues,
sidestepping real debate in favor of thriller tension and unease, a mood he
expertly crafts via a Martha’s Vineyard granite-and-glass compound setting that
exudes menace, as well as deep-focus cinematography marked by visual lines
expanding into the frame. The result is a feeling of drowning, which props up a
narrative that, despite well-nuanced performances by Brosnan, McGregor and
Olivia Williams as Brosnan’s canny wife, bogs down in a second act short on heat. An understated late showdown between McGregor’s ghost and Tom
Wilkinson’s intimidating professor is so taut as to distract attention away
from the low-stakes game being played. Yet bringing one back to earth, the film’s
central, climactic revelations prove ho-hum, apt to make one wonder what all
the fuss was about and, ultimately, make one wish that Polanski’s superb
artistry – highlighted by a gorgeous final shot that, matching an earlier image,
conveys the impossibility of wrestling control and order over looming, imposing
forces – was at the behest of less disposable material.
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