Skip to main content

"The Ghost Writer" - Movie Review


“The Ghost Writer” is an eloquent praise of the sublime. The power of evocation, Ploanski uses it to great acclaim. He alludes to the knots in the thread of the plot; hanging on to the knots, viewers are presented a local chasm in the plot. But what we don’t realize is, we may just as well have been fed the plot as different routes through which to reach the pinnacle of the mountain. Only the director holds the keys to the overhanging car, through which one can visualize for once the entire plot as it is created.

Ghost writer McEwan is assigned the task of completing the memoirs of former British Prime Minister Pierce Brosnan. None of the characters are intriguing; they are pure, simple and almost possible. The writer finds himself mugged of his manuscript to begin with, later discovers that there is more to the memoirs than what he was made to believe at the beginning. The muddled history of wars and the prime minister’s involvement in it, the precarious upholstery on which the ghost writer settles himself is a treat to watch. He is accosted by the prime minister’s wife; there is an old man who is perpetually cleaning the porch as the wind sweeps dry twigs incessantly; the secretary is nice; the security guards are sturdy and watchful.

The movie is pure conceit of the art of allegory. Puerile minds might find it utterly lackadaisical, but if you have seen Ploanski before, then you will acknowledge the rare ascendance of art. The movie is powerful in many ways as ‘Chinatown’ was. Do watch the German movie ‘Revanche’ to get a bite at the German sublimity.

The manuscript itself is laid aside for the greater part of the movie. More emphasis is cast on the unfortunate ghost writer who is stuck in an island with pursuers snooping on him. His predecessor’s secrets or should I say his findings that this ghost uncovers; what should he make out of them? Should he pursue this path that his predecessor took? What if the snake charmer is merely waiting for him to slip out of the basket and dance to the charming tunes? Who is the snake charmer?

Few movies evoke the mind and titillate your senses as much as this one does. It is as if you are relapsing in trance and letting the wine of sublime energy wash over you until you realize that your senses are throttled and the ghost is being interrogated by cops, for he is the chief witness. Something very dramatic happens and you are bound to think, Ah! Now what? This is it. It’s over?

But it is not over yet. The closing scene of the movie is the most remarkable.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Entrenched Prejudices taking the form of Patriotism

What a great way to celebrate the Independence Day? I am bemused, apparently owing to the wide exposure of emotional experiences hitherto seemed innocuous. Delve a little deep into the acquaintance with idea "patriotism", one will invariably be granted with an uncalled inquisition, one gets to stare at a disconcerting vacuum. Why do we brand ourselves with nations that are a mere collection of geographically propelled, culturally augmented, self aggrandizing people? Answer is elusive to many for the reasons best known to them hitherto for their own good are turning skeptical now. Man whom the evolutionists assert shares a common ancestor with chimps and gibbons, naturally after parting his ways with his cousins (chimps, gibbons) choose to retain a comprehensive emotional, physiological and mental disposition. Man, if he ever chooses to embark on a space ship that supposedly travels back in time is bound to diminish his self esteem owing to his impromptu urge to track his ance...

Pressure Cooker

Daubing the top of wicks, one by one, with drops of kerosene, J proceeded to rest her newly bought Hawkins pressure cooker on the stove. “Now, you wait for the whistle” said the wealthy neighbouring lady who assisted J that morning with the cooker. With an assumed indifference, J waited for the whistle to lift its bottom over the lid and dance in merry. The kerosene stove, she was told won’t do justice to the cooker; she needed a proper gas stove with sleek finish and hollowed eyes that spewed blue flames with the turn of a switch. The kerosene stove with its twelve tongues brocaded over the epithelial layer of its throat, strung into a circle, served her family since the time of marriage. Her son squatted beside her, giggled and found it amusing as J rubbed his cheeks with her hands warmed before the many tongued stove. In the forlorn house under the wooden roof that leaked, between the pale brown walls that flaked, over the grey rugged tiles that cracked, mother and son lent their t...

The moth that covered my face!

My dog came prancing and dancing towards me, I started petting him almost impulsively, took his ears and rolled them over his head hither and thither, stroked his forehead, he was enjoying my attention blushingly perhaps, and he leant his head downwards and was swaying around to get the most of affection. And, suddenly he leapt forward with his hind legs brushing my knee cap, I looked over and he was merrily teasing a moth which apparently fell over on its back and was trying desperately to climb back into a more modest stand. Well, anatomically speaking, the moth had a curved back, smooth with shiny plate like outer skin that extended from front to rear forming quite an armour. It had tiny legs, it was just too hard to find out how many though, drawn so close to the body in a twisted tangled mess, it looked as if, the insect was bothering perhaps a little too much about its legs. On any other occasion, the moth would have leisurely entertained me with its physical theatrics, but this...