Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai

How on earth did a director whose work has left me as cold as Jarmusch's end up making one of my all-time favorite films?

It's a valid question, I think. I've certainly given almost everything of Jarmusch's a shot, but with one exception (Broken Flowers), nothing he's made has made much of a positive impression on me. Any serious film fan hates the word "pretentious" and how easily it gets thrown around, but sometimes it's the only word that applies, and it applies to my feelings about Jarmusch. I don't doubt that he's playing with highbrow ideas, or that his concepts are interesting, but in general, I find his films so self-consciously arty and full of forced oddities that I roll my eyes at them.

And really, Ghost Dog should be no exception. Here's a movie about a young black man who is obsessed with the ancient code of the samurai. He works for a set of pathetic mafia gangsters who are far from the force they once were, and spend their time in the back of an old Chinese restaurant spouting 80s rap lyrics or bizarre non sequiturs. Ghost Dog himself only communicates with them via messages carried by pigeons, and spends the rest of his time training birds, practicing his swordcraft, reciting passages from the code of the samurai, or hanging out with his best friend, an ice cream seller who only speaks French (which, incidentally, Ghost Dog doesn't understand).

And yet...and yet.

Somehow, despite itself, Ghost Dog really works, creating a vibrant world whose contradictions and oddities I find comforting, not quirky. And every time I watch it, I find this movie about a hitman, assassinations, betrayals, and violence to be one of the most peaceful and soothing films I own.

So what makes it work?

You can't talk about Ghost Dog without talking about Forest Whitaker, who plays the title role. Whitaker brings a fascinating series of contradictions to the screen simply by virtue of his person. He's a massive man with an intimidating build but a quiet voice, one who brings intensity and yet an inner depth and sadness that you don't always expect. All of these qualities, of course, got Whitaker an Oscar for his portrayal of Idi Amin, but they're used just as brilliantly - if not more so - in Ghost Dog. There's a core of deep sadness and weariness at the core of Whitaker's performance. Ghost Dog is a man of violence - a very capable assassin, one who executes every job flawlessly. He has unwavering loyalty to Louie, a mobster to whom he feels he owes his life (exactly how much Ghost Dog does or does not owe Louie is one of the movie's most compelling questions). And yet, Ghost Dog is all too aware that he is a man who does not belong in the time in which he lives. His code of honor, his beliefs, his ideals all belong to a time which has long since passed from the earth.

It is this sense - the sense of men who feel that their time has passed - that pervades Ghost Dog and gives it such an elegiac tone. Ghost Dog is not the only one adrift in a time that has passed him by. The mobsters find themselves in a world that no longer recognizes their authority or power. They are in the back room of a Chinese restaurant because it is the only place whose rent they can afford, and even that is in doubt. We don't see these men extorting money, running job sites, managing casinos, or even selling drugs. Instead, they've turned on each other, playing their power games with the only people left who recognize them: themselves.

So what separates Ghost Dog from these men? Why are they laughed at and ridiculed, while Ghost Dog wanders a community that respects him even as they don't understand him?

In college, during a course on philosophies and film, our professor presented Ghost Dog as an example of Taoist thinking on film, and there is no doubt that these underpinnings contribute to the sense of peacefulness that fills the film for me. Taoism is all about accepting the nature of the world, about realizing that things unfold according to their nature and that we must accept them instead of fighting against it. Few things illustrate this as clearly as Ghost Dog's recitation from the Hagakure about rainstorms:

There is something to be learned from a rainstorm. When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet and run quickly along the road. But doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses, you still get wet. When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed, though you still get the same soaking. This understanding extends to everything.

This acceptance of things is what separates Ghost Dog from the mobsters. To the Mafia, they long for a time which can no longer return, and they fight against a world that no longer accepts them. Ghost Dog, by contrast, is aware that he is an anachronism. He accepts that, living the best he can even while knowing that he has no place in this world. Though he finds the world absurd and ridiculous, he accepts it and lives the best he can. Only once does his calm exterior break: when confronted with poachers who kill for the sake of fun. It is the one time Ghost Dog kills not out of obligation or requirement, but out of anger and hatred.

There's little denying Ghost Dog's oddness as a film. No less a critic than Roger Ebert has decided that the film only works if you present Ghost Dog as an insane person, and the film's events through his fractured mind. It's a valid attempt to take on the film's contradictions, but if you demonize Ghost Dog as insane, you lose the complex moral heart of the film. Is Ghost Dog an absurd figure? Undoubtedly. And yet, we never find ourselves laughing at him, unlike the gangsters with their ridiculous attire, dated speeches, and sad attempts to grab onto pop culture (although there's an irony that the 80s rapper who is constantly quoted, Flavor Flav, has made his own comeback, one largely predicated on his absurd and out of date persona).

Rather, Ghost Dog brings a quiet dignity to the film, and provides an oddly moral heart to the film. Yes, he is a man of violence, a killer who is exceptionally adroit at this job. But more than that, he brings a sense of honor, righteousness, and inner peace to the film, and to the world as a whole. Is it any wonder that while few know how to approach him in the film, all who do treat him with respect?

In the end, it's that aspect that has made Ghost Dog such a beloved film for me. Yes, the film is incredibly entertaining. It's funny, witty, smart, and lots of fun. But it's that sad, elegiac tone that sticks with me long after the film has ended. Ghost Dog is a look at a man whose moral code finds a basis in a time which no longer exists. And yet, he accepts the difficulties of the world and the changes in it, making the best of his life and attempting to accept people as they are.

It's a lesson we could all stand to learn, and the fact that it comes from a movie about a hitman is just another odd contradiction that makes Ghost Dog such a remarkable film.