REVIEW: Polanski's 'Ghost Writer' Is as Amoral as Its Director

The most satisfying part of my “Ghost Writer” movie-going experience came after the last fade just as the credits started to roll. My screening took place in one of those art house theatres where the real price of admission is suffering through 22 agonizing minutes (I keep track) of trailers for those absurdly pretentious films insecure people pretend to like. The theatre was pretty full, much fuller than expected. But when the movie was all over even arthousey fans of director Roman Polanski couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. When someone behind me started one of those THE MOVIE WASN’T GOOD BUT THE POLITICS WERE CORRECT claps, he clapped alone.

**Major Spoilers Coming**

Budgeted at $45 million, “The Ghost Writer” is yet another (by my count: 17) multi-million dollar sortie in Leftist Hollywood’s ongoing effort to enable the evil of terrorism by siding against the West. And for this reason, what starts out as the witty, fast-paced and involving story of a young writer (a charming Ewan McGregor) hired to aid former British Prime Minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan) to write his memoirs, quickly gets buried under the trappings of a muddled and ultimately, very stupid thriller.

In Polanski’s morally confused world, saving innocent lives with the use of water boarding is an absolute wrong and Prime Minister Tony Blair’s decision (he’s quite obviously the Brosnan character) to join America in the liberating of 25 million innocent Iraqis can only mean that he’s Bush’s poodle and a stooge for the CIA – a CIA that we’re told is always working against America’s best interest because of their Middle East policies and, yes, support of missile defense.

This is the cinematic equivalent of the three-bank shot of stupid. And stupid isn’t thrilling. But stupid can be funny and when the Condi Rice lookalike shows up, it rises to laugh-out-loud funny.

The shame of it all is that thanks to expert pacing and McGregor’s superb performance, “The Ghost Writer” starts out quite promising — as a smart, efficient, fish-out-of-water story that grabs hold of your attention for nearly forty minutes as McGregor’s “Ghost” (we never learn his name) is pulled from an everyday existence and thrust into Lang’s political world set in a large, sterile Oceanside home on the Northeastern coast of the United States.

As the last minute replacement for the previous writer (a close friend of Lang’s who accidentally drowned), McGregor’s under enormous pressure to meet an impossible one month deadline. In Lang’s topsy-turvy existence focus would be difficult under normal circumstances but almost immediately a media siege begins after the World Court announces they’re considering indicting Lang as a war criminal for shipping four terrorists out of the country for a little of the ole’ water boarding.

It’s at this turning point that the narrative begins to takes on two fatal problems. The first is that to those of us who think differently than the left — say, for example, our disagreement over whether or not child rapists belong in jail even when they direct movies – Brosnan’s Lang did nothing wrong. And so you sit there wondering what all the hullaballoo’s about. In the real moral world what’s evil is not doing whatever’s necessary to interrogate those who murder the innocent and giving up your national sovereignty to the unholy World Court.

Sure, there’s a murder, but it quickly becomes an afterthought in all the proselytizing and it’s an unmotivated murder to boot — to cover up Lang’s ties to a CIA agent who in turn’s involved in (you knew this was coming) a Halliburtonish multi-national corporation. The weight given to these silly reveals is laughable. I’m sure in a fever-dream as he’s spooning with Chris Matthews, Keith Olbermann would gasp. But the only crime Lang appears to be guilty of is in allowing himself to be influenced by those who think winning the war against Islamo-fascism is a good thing.

The second problem is a narrative structure that’s sequenced in a way that loses track of what the movie wants to be about. Just as the discovery phase of the story appears to begin when McGregor finds an envelope full of clues, all the intrigue goes off-track for a long and ultimately pointless seduction sequence involving Lang’s bitter, lonely, insecure wife (Olivia Williams). As with all the weight given to McGregor’s deadline, in the end this “romantic” subplot has nothing to do with the overall plot which leaves you with an unsatisfied aftertaste.

McGregor’s character also lacks the emotional turning point that helps to make ultimate sense of his actions. In one scene he expresses a complete lack of interest in doing any of the investigative reporting necessary to unravel the truth. But in the next, he literally risks his life doggedly questioning and entering the home of a man he suspects is a murderer. One of the most important and satisfying of thriller moments is the protagonist’s chilling realization of the stakes involved in whatever he’s gotten himself into. That just never happens. Eventually, McGregor’s character loses most of his steam because too much of his time is spent reacting as opposed to making things happen.

After 17 films and a perfect 100% failure rate, you have to wonder if the amoral degenerates who produce this junk aren’t starting to wonder why all their hard work and financial investment always results in a completely forgettable flop. Someone needs to sit them down and explain that if you want your movie to not suck is has to be about something. And if all you’re about is tearing down the good guys, then you’re about absolutely nothing.

No one expects those who have so willingly chose the darkside to understand that nihilism is not a value, but any junior college screenwriting student will tell you it’s no substitute for a theme.