The Ghost Writer

It begins with a car, abandoned on a small ferry, and a body laid out on the beach. It belongs to the ghostwriter of the former British prime minister's memoirs, product of a book deal valued at seven figures. An accident? The saturation of alcohol in his blood suggests so. In any case, the death creates an opportunity for a new ghost writer to step in and quickly complete the project.

While not without reservations, the unnamed Ghost (Ewan MacGregor) is flown to America and hastily ensconced in an island retreat meant to be reminiscent of Martha's Vineyard. He catches up on the horribly written memoir and meets former prime minster, Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan), just as the international news breaks: Adam is accused of illegally handing suspected terrorists over to the CIA and torture.

While the above merely sets the scene, the magic of this film is that, by this point, the story is saturated by a thick sense of forboding peril. It's partly generated by the chilly, gray, overcast setting, partly by the suggestion of murder, partly by the volatile reaction to secrets being exposed. And yet these elements are handled in such a way that they seem incidental, and nothing to deter the amiable ghost writer from his work. He makes friends and starts in, while as a viewer, I presume the old ghost murdered and am desperately trying to glean what clues I can from every scene, looking for a sign of the villain and finding none. Soon I hold everyone suspect. Suspect of what? I'm not sure, but I desperately hope I'll find out before it's too late.

It was a pleasure to be drawn into this film, to feel the peril, to take the psychological ride. I wouldn't be surprised if this comes to be appreciated as one of Polanski's masterpieces. It is one of those rare films that strikes and perfectly maintains, beneath any subtle permutations, a beautiful, sombre tone.

Roman Polanski co-wrote the script with Robert Harris, whose novel, The Ghost, is the basis for the film.