Director: Jim Jarmusch Producers: Richard Guay, Jim Jarmusch Screenplay: Jim Jarmusch Cinematography: Robby Müller Editor: Jay Rabinowitz Music: RZA | Forest Whitaker (Ghost Dog) John Tormey (Louie) Cliff Gorman (Sonny Valerio) Dennis Liu (Chinese Restaurant Owner) Frank Minucci (Big Angie) Tricia Vessey (Louise Vargo) |
FESTIVALS:
1999 Cannes, Toronto, Pusan, Taipei
2000 Montevideo, Wellington
2010 Milano
2023 [Restoration] Shanghai
Jim Jarmusch combines his love for the ice-cool crime dramas of Jean-Pierre Melville and Seijun Suzuki with the philosophical dimensions of samurai mythology for an eccentrically postmodern take on the hit-man thriller. In one of his defining roles, Forest Whitaker brings a commanding serenity to his portrayal of a Zen contract killer working for a bumbling mob outfit, a modern man who adheres steadfastly to the ideals of the Japanese warrior code even as chaos and violence spiral around him. Featuring moody cinematography by the great Robby Müller, a mesmerizing score by the Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA, and a host of colorful character actors (including a memorably stone-faced Henry Silva), Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai plays like a pop-culture-sampling cinematic mix-tape built around a one-of-a-kind tragic hero.
– Janus Films.
Jim Jarmusch once remarked that his films are made up of the bits that other film-makers would cut out of their movies. His pictures have traditionally been comprised of the time between big events, the moments when the characters are either in transit or idling in a lugubrious neutral. The inhabitants of Down by Law are prison break-outs with no particular place to go. In Mystery Train the setting is the low-rent hotel where a crop of Memphis tourists cool their heels. In Night on Earth a series of taxi cabs ferry their respective passengers between points A and B. At its best, Jarmusch’s work circles so deliberately around conventional Hollywood notions of drama as to evolve a new drama all of its own.
What is one to make, then, of Ghost Day The Way of the Samurai? Face it head-on and this urban thriller signals a startling volte-face. Where Jarmusch used to score his films to avant-garde punk or white guitar music (his last picture, The Year of the Horse, was a documentary on old friend and collaborator Neil Young), Ghost Dog comes powered by a spare, trip-hop soundtrack from Wu Tang Clan frontman RZA. And where Jarmusch’s previous pictures were contemplative and unimpeded by straightforward narration, Ghost Dog teems with action. Its lead character is a hitman hounded by the Mob. Its body count is epic. It builds to a Scarface style shoot-out. It is, in short, a very different breed of Jarmusch movie.
Except it’s not really. Much as he did with his unloved but ambitious Western Dead Man, Jarmusch has taken hold of a genre template and remade it in his own image, sprinkling in some incongruous ingredients. As a result, Ghost Dog comes across as an eccentric salad of styles (a hip-hop Mafia samurai thriller, no less), its core pure Jarmusch. This, it turns out, is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Ghost Dog is underpinned by the film-maker’s familiar blend of warmth and cool-eyed distance, a mix as disarming as it is eccentric. It allows Jarmusch to poke gentle fun at his characters (and much of Ghost Dog is very funny) while simultaneously regarding them with a genuine affection. In this, he is helped by some fine performances, most notably from Henry Silva’s gimlet-eyed Mob boss and Forest Whitaker’s stoic, soulful hitman with a heart – stereotypes but likeable ones, with just enough kinks to keep them interesting.
But in its broader picture, Ghost Dog can be frustratingly lazy. The transplanting of old eastern codes to the present-day west is a device that’s been attempted by everyone from John Sturges (The Magnificent Seven, 1960) to Jean-Pierre Melville (Le Samurai, 1967) to John Frankenheimer (Ronin), but in adopting the same tack Jarmusch instigates a debate he can’t quite resolve. Ghost Dog offers some intriguing insights on the melting-pot US, a place where Sicilian mobsters mouth Flavor Flav lyrics and the black underclass study Japanese philosophy. But it complicates matters by drawing a link between both old-school Mafia codes and ancient samurai honour and (more crucially) between black urban culture and ancient samurai honour. The first link is credible; the second less so. Jarmusch offers no illumination as to why Ghost Dog feels an affinity with samurai teachings, nor why he insists on passing those teachings on to an Afro-American child. Instead, he tosses in bland Hollywood shorthand. Ghost Dog is black, ergo he is soulful.
Not that Jarmusch has ever been known for his rigour, and Ghost Dog is no exception. This is a picture by turns amusing and melancholic, sweet-centred and dark-edged. Jarmusch clearly finds observations easier than analysis, and the trip more satisfying than the destination. Ghost Dog‘s shoot-out is not a climax; just another port of call in its creator’s endless voyage around himself.
– Xan Brooks, Sight and Sound, May 2000.
1999 Cannes, Toronto, Pusan, Taipei
2000 Montevideo, Wellington
2010 Milano
2023 [Restoration] Shanghai
Jim Jarmusch combines his love for the ice-cool crime dramas of Jean-Pierre Melville and Seijun Suzuki with the philosophical dimensions of samurai mythology for an eccentrically postmodern take on the hit-man thriller. In one of his defining roles, Forest Whitaker brings a commanding serenity to his portrayal of a Zen contract killer working for a bumbling mob outfit, a modern man who adheres steadfastly to the ideals of the Japanese warrior code even as chaos and violence spiral around him. Featuring moody cinematography by the great Robby Müller, a mesmerizing score by the Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA, and a host of colorful character actors (including a memorably stone-faced Henry Silva), Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai plays like a pop-culture-sampling cinematic mix-tape built around a one-of-a-kind tragic hero.
– Janus Films.
Jim Jarmusch once remarked that his films are made up of the bits that other film-makers would cut out of their movies. His pictures have traditionally been comprised of the time between big events, the moments when the characters are either in transit or idling in a lugubrious neutral. The inhabitants of Down by Law are prison break-outs with no particular place to go. In Mystery Train the setting is the low-rent hotel where a crop of Memphis tourists cool their heels. In Night on Earth a series of taxi cabs ferry their respective passengers between points A and B. At its best, Jarmusch’s work circles so deliberately around conventional Hollywood notions of drama as to evolve a new drama all of its own.
What is one to make, then, of Ghost Day The Way of the Samurai? Face it head-on and this urban thriller signals a startling volte-face. Where Jarmusch used to score his films to avant-garde punk or white guitar music (his last picture, The Year of the Horse, was a documentary on old friend and collaborator Neil Young), Ghost Dog comes powered by a spare, trip-hop soundtrack from Wu Tang Clan frontman RZA. And where Jarmusch’s previous pictures were contemplative and unimpeded by straightforward narration, Ghost Dog teems with action. Its lead character is a hitman hounded by the Mob. Its body count is epic. It builds to a Scarface style shoot-out. It is, in short, a very different breed of Jarmusch movie.
Except it’s not really. Much as he did with his unloved but ambitious Western Dead Man, Jarmusch has taken hold of a genre template and remade it in his own image, sprinkling in some incongruous ingredients. As a result, Ghost Dog comes across as an eccentric salad of styles (a hip-hop Mafia samurai thriller, no less), its core pure Jarmusch. This, it turns out, is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Ghost Dog is underpinned by the film-maker’s familiar blend of warmth and cool-eyed distance, a mix as disarming as it is eccentric. It allows Jarmusch to poke gentle fun at his characters (and much of Ghost Dog is very funny) while simultaneously regarding them with a genuine affection. In this, he is helped by some fine performances, most notably from Henry Silva’s gimlet-eyed Mob boss and Forest Whitaker’s stoic, soulful hitman with a heart – stereotypes but likeable ones, with just enough kinks to keep them interesting.
But in its broader picture, Ghost Dog can be frustratingly lazy. The transplanting of old eastern codes to the present-day west is a device that’s been attempted by everyone from John Sturges (The Magnificent Seven, 1960) to Jean-Pierre Melville (Le Samurai, 1967) to John Frankenheimer (Ronin), but in adopting the same tack Jarmusch instigates a debate he can’t quite resolve. Ghost Dog offers some intriguing insights on the melting-pot US, a place where Sicilian mobsters mouth Flavor Flav lyrics and the black underclass study Japanese philosophy. But it complicates matters by drawing a link between both old-school Mafia codes and ancient samurai honour and (more crucially) between black urban culture and ancient samurai honour. The first link is credible; the second less so. Jarmusch offers no illumination as to why Ghost Dog feels an affinity with samurai teachings, nor why he insists on passing those teachings on to an Afro-American child. Instead, he tosses in bland Hollywood shorthand. Ghost Dog is black, ergo he is soulful.
Not that Jarmusch has ever been known for his rigour, and Ghost Dog is no exception. This is a picture by turns amusing and melancholic, sweet-centred and dark-edged. Jarmusch clearly finds observations easier than analysis, and the trip more satisfying than the destination. Ghost Dog‘s shoot-out is not a climax; just another port of call in its creator’s endless voyage around himself.
– Xan Brooks, Sight and Sound, May 2000.