The way of Jim Jarmusch

Ghost Dog's writer-director talks about why he's finally getting good

It's a brave thief who reveals his booty to the man from whom he stole it. But Jim Jarmusch could not resist showing his film, Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai to Seijun Suzuki, the 76-year-old Japanese director whose 1967 film Branded to Kill is echoed throughout Ghost Dog. Indeed, Jarmusch's film is like a fresh coat of paint poured over the master's original masterpiece. It could not exist without Suzuki's stylish, almost garish thriller about a Yakuza hit man who must pay for a job gone wrong. It would be too simple to say Ghost Dog tells the same story -- though Forest Whitaker's title character, a self-styled samurai under contract to the Mob, is forced to endure the same fate -- but Jarmusch himself would admit as much. His movie would not exist were it not for Suzuki's template.

As such, he was more than a little nervous about showing it to Suzuki in Tokyo last year (the film opened overseas in '99). Imagine the stress of screening your movie to the man who inspired it. It didn't help that Suzuki didn't...well, see, he liked it. He just didn't get it, especially a scene late in the film, when the gangsters out to kill Ghost Dog instead massacre his pet pigeons. Suzuki would have had his hero seek revenge immediately; vengeance does not dawdle. Jarmusch, who never met a long pause he didn't like, waits forever for the payoff.

"Umm, Mr. Suzuki liked the film a lot," Jarmusch says, "but then I got him kinda drunk, 'cause I kept saying, 'Tell me what you don't like, tell me what didn't work for you.' Finally he said, 'Well, your sense of tension is very different than mine.' Which is certainly true, because after I finished this film I was wondering if I could show it to Sam Fuller -- if he were still around -- what would he think? And I thought to myself, he would say, 'Well, it lacks conventional tension or, you know, a killer or revenge motive or whatever,' which it certainly does, because that's not my approach. But finally Mr. Suzuki kind of said the same thing: 'After they kill his birds, he drives around for a long time before taking action.' He couldn't understand that at all."

The RZA of moviemaking: Jim Jarmusch and Forest Whitaker on the set of Ghost Dog.
The RZA of moviemaking: Jim Jarmusch and Forest Whitaker on the set of Ghost Dog.


Jarmusch is the film world's turntablist, mixing and matching samples until someone else's work becomes his own singular art. Ghost Dog, with its RZA-provided soundtrack and Public Enemy in-jokes and cartoon images that play nonstop on constantly blaring television sets, is a film you can dance to. Not since last year's Run Lola Run has a movie so propelled a viewer through its landscape. Yes, it may feel slow, but that's only because its thrills sneak up on you, like a shadow in a dark alley.

To that end, Ghost Dog is the writer-director's most complete, satisfying film since his 1984 debut Stranger Than Paradise. It's more of a Western than his own Dead Man, the 1995 film that starred Johnny Depp as a white man lost in the Wild West frontier. Where that film was turgid, flat, indulgent, Ghost Dog is so vibrant and alive (and, often, hysterical) that it appears to have been shot in 3-D. No matter how leisurely Whitaker lumbers across the screen, he is always moving forward, dragging the audience along. It's a performance of brute force commingled with slow-mo poetry. He barely speaks -- for the first half hour or so, you hear his voice only when he's reading from the The Hagakure, a centuries-old samurai text -- though he need not say anything at all.

Which would make Ghost Dog the antithesis of Jim Jarmusch, who never met a question he didn't like to answer -- not once, but a handful of different ways. He's much like his own body of work, a series of notes constructed (sort of) to make a final, complete picture. The man doesn't write scripts as much as he assembles bits and pieces into a whole. Ghost Dog began as nothing more than a modern-day, East-meets-West gangster film written for Forest Whitaker. What it turned into is a profound, arresting work -- the best of Jarmusch's career.

Dallas Observer: Since your films are assembled from a collection of notes, are you surprised by the way they come together at the end? Or are you so aware of it as you're putting it together that when it's done, you go, "Oh, this is what I always intended anyway?"

Jim Jarmusch: "Well, I build into the whole process a kind of intuitive acceptance of its own organic nature, whereas most directors will get a script written by someone else, and then they start rehearsing that script, which has been OK'd by the executive producers or whatever. They're basically following that map pretty carefully. And what I do is, my script is only a blueprint: It shows the shape of the house, but it doesn't tell you what the interior colors look like or where the furniture goes or even where all the windows might be. So I do have a structure that I'm trying to build to the plan. But I'm also -- and I'm trying to learn this more and more -- I'm very open to things that might change. Like I've never used a storyboard, because I like to be thinking on my feet...I try to be open to things, changing and adapting, and this goes through all the way to the end of the editing process."

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