Within cinema a common conceit is often visible: a tendency to romanticise the
subject. So, in Ghost Dog indie-director Jim Jarmusch presents us with an
idealistic hit man. Modelling himself on Samurai traditions, Ghost Dog (Forest
Whitaker) passes by the living without detection, seeking inner harmony through
the rigorous violence of assassination. His chosen code supports no deviation
from the path, even when the price is death itself. In reality it seems more
likely that such hired killers are pinball psychopaths, careering from one messy
killing to another, disposable and repulsive. Perhaps not an audience-pleasing
foundation for Jarmusch's poetical interest in humanity?
Consequently, in this particular story, Ghost Dog displays no anti-social
tendencies; he comes across as a generally nice guy. Apart from the small matter
of killing people, a purely professional matter, Ghost Dog is both gentle and
humane. Not that this makes him a cultural gadfly, oh no. Ghost Dog's happiness
springs from sitting alone with his pigeons, re-reading a thumbed copy of the
Hagakure (an 18th century collection of meditations on Bushido) and
contemplating existence. Sometimes messages are returned by pigeon, outlining
the next job that mobster Louie (John Tormey) needs assistance with, otherwise
days are spent sitting in the park or slumbering on a rooftop.
In promotional interviews, Jarmusch makes it clear that he imagined Whitaker
in the role of Ghost Dog right from the start. An inspired piece of casting as
it turns out. Whitaker, with his striking physical presence and subtle facial
control, really holds Ghost Dog together (given the conflicting
influences, not an easy task). His demeanour is one of a man who accepts his
place in the world, confident that the current situation has been mastered.
Whitaker's slow gait reflects this mindset; while Ghost Dog appears large and
cumbersome, Whitaker's study of martial arts gives his character a fluid
gracefulness. There's no obvious dividing line, weapons are an extension of
Ghost Dog's being.
Though Whitaker is present in the majority of scenes, from generous night
drives to inventive assassinations, Jarmusch doesn't stint on the supporting
characters. Ghost Dog demonstrates his flair for interesting, quirky
people (who defy being put in a box). Some, like French-speaking ice-cream man
Raymond (Isaach De Bankol?, have a minor but oddly amusing part to play in the
proceedings. That Ghost Dog and Raymond have synchronous conversations, without
even knowing it, somehow seems natural. Others, like the motley gang of
geriatric hoods that Louie associates with, have more impact. Too broke to pay
the rent on their property, these gangsters are nevertheless quite capable of
rubbing out their enemies -- like Ghost Dog.
Underneath this basic premise Jarmusch slips an uneven but frequently amusing
script. The Italian-American mobsters are deadpan funny, whether displaying an
unexpected enthusiasm for rap or commiserating on the death of a misguided
colleague. Their formulaic responses contrast nicely with Ghost Dog, a man of
few words and many shibboleths. Mainly he intones over random chunks of
Hagakure text, apparently slapped on screen for our enlightenment but in
reality rather distracting. Jarmusch's pick-and-mix approach works with varying
success for Ghost Dog, sometimes opening new avenues of understanding,
sometimes standing out like cheap decor. It's a little frustrating.
Fortunately, even a relatively weak Jarmusch production is worth taking the
time with. Whitaker, in a quietly impressive performance, embodies an obvious
contradiction; that a man who seeks peace should find it in the destruction of
contract killing. On top of this, there's the sad realisation that no one else
recognises Ghost Dog's code, not even his master Louie. Behind the tale an
apposite soundtrack throbs, courtesy of RZA. His beats whisper through Ghost
Dog like marble filaments, speaking of chosen alienation and urban crime.
It's a shame that Jarmusch makes the story opaque, as if to obscure just how
simplistic (and blunt) the targets are; there are subtler ways to handle the
racial divide. Sometimes a film can be too arty for its own good.
From
Movie Reviews UK 2000
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