Forest Whittaker is an enigmatic actor.
When you think you have him figured out, he does something to surprise you.
But of course, this shouldn't be unexpected.
Like a Las Vegas Blackjack dealer who tosses all of the cards face-up, there isn't much mystery left.
Yet, how that same gamesman reaches for the deck to tender the next "hit" always seems to have a lot of suspense.
We know in this movie that Whittaker's character is a professional hit man whose own life was spared by a gangster, for whom he has plied his deadly trade ever since.
They communicate by carrier pigeons, inscribing tiny notes that detail the next target to bewhacked.
Whittaker is an unconventional hit man because he openly subscribes to the Samurai code.
Periodically, we're reminded of this because cryptic passages appear on the screen from time to time, telling us how appropriate it is to live each moment as if it is your last, and how things are never quite as they seem.
This movie raises the classical question: How can you be honorable in an inherently dishonorable walk of life? Is there such a thing as a "good" hit man? Indeed, when most of us consider Samurai folklore, are we mindlessly glorifying violence, while sanctifying it with a code of conduct that is merely for show? I've often wondered why prize fights feature announcers who are dapperly decked out in tuxedos.
Unless I've missed something, they're not doubling as musicians at the chamber orchestra after the bouts, are they? There is much decorum associated with violence, at least of the positively sanctioned sort.
Duelists, in the European tradition, went out of their way to be fastidious as they tried to blow holes in each other or skewer their counterparts with rapiers.
Why do we need our violence "prettied-up?" Director Jim Jarmusch shows Whittaker, the Ghost Dog in the title, as an efficient killer who reads books.
But the character isn't deep; just deadly.
I suspect he is closer to today's generation of martial artists than to those who lived in Samurai times, but then, we'll never really know, will we?
When you think you have him figured out, he does something to surprise you.
But of course, this shouldn't be unexpected.
Like a Las Vegas Blackjack dealer who tosses all of the cards face-up, there isn't much mystery left.
Yet, how that same gamesman reaches for the deck to tender the next "hit" always seems to have a lot of suspense.
We know in this movie that Whittaker's character is a professional hit man whose own life was spared by a gangster, for whom he has plied his deadly trade ever since.
They communicate by carrier pigeons, inscribing tiny notes that detail the next target to bewhacked.
Whittaker is an unconventional hit man because he openly subscribes to the Samurai code.
Periodically, we're reminded of this because cryptic passages appear on the screen from time to time, telling us how appropriate it is to live each moment as if it is your last, and how things are never quite as they seem.
This movie raises the classical question: How can you be honorable in an inherently dishonorable walk of life? Is there such a thing as a "good" hit man? Indeed, when most of us consider Samurai folklore, are we mindlessly glorifying violence, while sanctifying it with a code of conduct that is merely for show? I've often wondered why prize fights feature announcers who are dapperly decked out in tuxedos.
Unless I've missed something, they're not doubling as musicians at the chamber orchestra after the bouts, are they? There is much decorum associated with violence, at least of the positively sanctioned sort.
Duelists, in the European tradition, went out of their way to be fastidious as they tried to blow holes in each other or skewer their counterparts with rapiers.
Why do we need our violence "prettied-up?" Director Jim Jarmusch shows Whittaker, the Ghost Dog in the title, as an efficient killer who reads books.
But the character isn't deep; just deadly.
I suspect he is closer to today's generation of martial artists than to those who lived in Samurai times, but then, we'll never really know, will we?
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