Ghost Writer, The
Monday, August 2, 2010 at 2:15PM 
Why is it I suffer Ewan McGregor?
I mean, is there truly order and justice in the world when a deadened slug like him can attain leading man status?
And speaking of justice, is it fair for Roman Polanski to be ostracized and condemned for life by an endless stream of vindictive, man-hating harpies for a transgression committed over thirty years ago while McGregor is free to ruin the good times of millions of cinema goers with each new aesthetic delict of his? Polanski becomes internationally vilified for the strange reemergence of long forgotten charges yet McGregor continues to find work in feature length films without so much as a slap on the wrist for his stark crimes against drama?
"Protect the children" indeed.
I mention this iniquity only because both men are the driving forces behind the motion picture The Ghost Writer; a surprisingly nuanced political thriller that sees Polanski at the top of his game and McGregor doing all he can just to not fuck the whole thing up.
With Hitchcockian glee, Polanski takes Robert Harris' The Ghost and turns its contemporary issues into timeless suspense. While the subject matter is straight out of today's headlines (well, its about Tony Blair and his complicity with the U.S. in rendition and torture so, let's say, yesterday's headlines if wanting to indict) the twists, pacing and eternal political truths of the story heighten it beyond a simple current events movie.
It is that crafted thriller, reminiscent of so many from the politically charged films of the '70s, that constantly challenges its audience to think, relays information visually rather than via wordy exposition, rightfully has no redeemable characters (although they are assuredly realistic) and cynically questions the essence of government and its leaders.
I kept thinking to myself throughout it that this is what film used to be like.
And also, that I have no interest in ever engaging Ewan McGregor in conversation over drinks. He is a tireless bore.
His character is a ghost writer hired to rewrite the memoirs of a former British PM (a good turn by Pierce Brosnan), now residing in a fortress-like estate on Cape Cod. The former ghost writer died suspiciously and the story keeps inserting McGregor into the dead man's shoes. Isolated yet constantly surveilled at the compound he begins to discover that his deceased predecessor was discovering some inconvenient facts about his subject. Namely, the reason for the PM's acquiescence to America's will. McGregor becomes more investigative journalist than ghost biographer and finds himself reluctantly swept up in the conspiracy.
McGregor's character is supposed to be a seasoned hack, quick with a barb or bon mot to emit the proper aloofness and sense of irony of a jaded scribe. Think Christopher Hitchens with an ego slightly smaller than Andromeda. This is where Ewan fails. You can tell the character is likely to be the sort of person who charms the ladies, soothes the authorities and humors his adversaries with his sly tongue, quick wit and devilish manner. McGregor possesses none of these qualities. Nor is he able to "act" them out. He plods along, reciting lines of clever dialogue and outsmarting his opponents without ever once making you believe he is remotely capable of such feats. In the hands of a more refined actor, say Keanu Reeves, Michael Cera or Norman Fell, this panache would have easily shone through.
To Polanski's credit, this lack of a leading man was not enough to sink the film. There are few missteps here. Some of the scenes drag on too long, although the building of suspense is necessary in most cases. The story suffers a few instances of what I call "The Arbitrary Trust Factor" wherein a character involved in deadly conspiracies and fateful decision making for most of the plot suddenly, and without explanation, decides to believe the words of complete strangers or meet up with nefarious entities alone and without collateral protection in dangerously uninhabited locations. And just to warn you, there'll be a point where the story is picking up steam, your interest is piquing, all is moving along swimmingly and... "OH MY GOD, IS THAT JIM FUCKING BELUSHI AND KIM FUCKING CATRALL IN A ROMAN FUCKING POLANSKI FILM?!
But, for the most part, The Ghost Writer works astonishingly well. It will please writers, mystery buffs, politicos, suspense freaks, classic movie lovers and even Ewan McGregor fans. Whoever those idiots might be. I got a feeling they're not old enough to watch "PG-13" rated movies or cut their own meat anyway.
Trainspotting seems so long ago, doesn't it?
Reader Comments (6)
You are right. McGregor acts like Brosnan sings (Oy Vey! Mamma Mia!) but Ewan has a decent singing voice, a handsome face and quite the schlong (remember The Pilliowbook?). So if I should happen to be having drinks with him I am not thinking about the quality of conversation.
So you enjoyed being pleasured by a rapist? Polanski is a rapist. But why bring that into the review at all? Let's separate the art from the artist. Between listening to Brosnan sing, McGregor act or being raped by Polanski, I might have to choose rape, as you have already done.
The writer could he/she be biased much? Wow you really do not like McGregor do you? Sounds like there must be more to this attack. According to a lot of people including me McGregor is one of the best actor's of his generation
Yeah, Nadia, I'm a jilted ex-lover of his.
Do you prefer your toast without butter as well?
And a wise choice by you, Lars.
Well, you've done it again. I can't believe that I'm saying this, but Ghost Writer was a horrible waste of time. I did say, ""OH MY GOD, IS THAT JIM FUCKING BELUSHI AND KIM FUCKING CATRALL IN A ROMAN FUCKING POLANSKI FILM?!" I did, I did, I did. Fortunately, Jim Belushi was quick and dirty, but Kim fucking Catrall was always there and not very good at all. The plot was weak, and the ending (1st letter of each chapter) come on, that was stupid and boring. I'm so glad that I took my sister's advise again, and didn't waste my time or money seeing it in the theater. Finally, I'm glad that Polanski choked on this film. It goes to show you that we're not missing too much from his hasty departure from L.A.
I watched half of this the other morning but fell asleep, which is common after being hung-over and consuming some righteous eggs benedict then lying sideways on my couch. I'll hold off on my final judgement till I finish it. The first thirty minutes I remember didn't induce vomiting, so I'll try and finish again soon. JM
As I tried vainly to post last evening, I might have loved this film until I sat there in front of the screen for TWO FUCKING HOURS and more. Polanski is cool with me, but damn! Whatever happened to film editing???
JM