Spectral Duties: Roman Polanski’s The Ghost Writer

Roman Polanski might have been having his legal troubles of late, but that has not put him off his stroke with the screen adaptation of Robert Harris’s The Ghost Writer. It is impressive to see that Polanski, even under house arrest, can feed his dark arts. The former British Prime Minister, Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan) finds himself without a ghost writer for his poorly written memoirs. The previous appointment ostensibly drowned himself, the wretched victim of a cold suicide. (A less than subtle allusion to waterboarding?) Immediately, an air of suspense settles to cloak the film. Did the now terminated ghost writer stumble onto something? Ewan McGregor’s character, unnamed and spectral, finds himself as the replacement.

The narrative, constantly menaced by the brooding sky, much rain and a disconcerting atmosphere, picks up the same themes as the novel, authored by a man who might himself have been a ghost writer for a former prime minister. The Anglo-American relationship, be it through Lang or his formidable, politically attuned wife Ruth (Olivia Williams) is teased out, revealing a dark edge to that age-old alliance. Lang’s complicity in the rendition of terror suspects keeps him confined. His movements are restricted to Martha’s Vineyard during a desolate winter. He may, in fact, be the subject of a war crimes prosecution. On his heels is the character of the zealous Richard Rycart, a moralist Robin Cook incarnate.

To those who view it, the similarities between former Prime Minister Tony Blair and his wife Cherie will be all too apparent There are no punches spared here. Blair was infuriatingly ingratiating to his more powerful counterpart and Lang is no different. His posturing, his acting, all fed by a solid thespian upbringing, add to the sham. He is a supreme communicator without a shred of substance, the reason why Plato was so keen to exile such beings from any model Republic. As Harris himself notes in the novel, ‘In the flesh, or on the screen playing the part of a statesman, [Lang] seemed to have a strong personality. But somehow, when one sat down to think about him, he vanished.’

The film is superbly controlled. Both Brosnan and McGregor put in fine performances, restrained by Polanski’s directing hand. Ghost writing is more stealthy than substantial, the broom in the background that cleans messy scripts and tidies history. Both Brosnan and McGregor are well paired in their pretenses: both are maladjusted by the situations thrust upon them. Both contrive and affect, chasing, in a sense, their own shadows. And both meet a similar fate. While it will not be regarded as Polanski’s best work, it will be a shot over the bow suggesting that he is far from done as a director.

Binoy Kampmark was a Commonwealth Scholar at Selwyn College, Cambridge. He lectures at RMIT University, Melbourne and is currently in San Francisco. Email: bkampmark@gmail.com

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