The Ninth Gate (1999)

Old books have a destiny of their own and a life of their own.
Some books are dangerous, not to be opened with impunity.

It’s a very particular sort of person who is into rare books. The sort of person who would know that Shakespeare invented the word ‘assassinate,’ and might still say ‘perchance’ without a hint of irony. Antiquarian, unusual, and probably rich, it is into the midst of such people Roman Polanski takes us in The Ninth Gate.

Polanski is a director I’ve always admired for his exploration of unique themes. In Rosemary’s Baby, he explores the state of the couple, the family in an urban environment: has it lost or gained something by its independence from traditional solidarity? In The Tenant, he explores the nature of modern apartment dwelling. In The Ninth Gate, he explores the power and mystique of the book. Films about films are innumerable, but films about books are perchance fewer than a dozen.

Of note is also Polanski’s approach to horror. He does not deliver shocks. He is decidedly unhitchcockian. Polanski’s method is to create an unsettled mood; a sense that something is wrong, disordered in the world. In Rosemary’s Baby and The Tenant, for instance, it is paranoia about neighbours. In Chinatown, though a noir, there is a horrific sense of awful things hidden in plain sight. With The Ninth Gate, that feeling of unsettlement is created early on and builds to the climax: there is just something not right with these book people, with their unhealthy interest in old, forgotten tomes; neither is there with the book at the center of the film.

The film begins with an introductory vignette of a man hanging himself. After the camera pans about his lovely study, a gap is revealed in his bookcase. The camera zooms into the gap, which takes us down CGI courtyards through a series of gates (nine, not surprisingly) while the credits roll. From this first moment, we’re being pulled forward by the book to an uncertain end: when we hit the ninth gate, we see only bright light, opening onto a pan of the city that backs into the apartment where we meet Dean Corso, our anti-hero, at work.

The character of Dean Corso is quickly revealed to be a cynical, amoral figure. He is frequently referred to as a mercenary, someone whose loyalty can be bought. Polanski has Depp deliberately speak Corso’s lines with a tinge of Jack Nicholson, reminding one of Chinatown’s Giddes. One also gets hints of Philip Marlowe, especially as portrayed by Bogart in The Big Sleep. Adding to this is the way Corso smokes everywhere, around even the rarest books, and only one of the book collectors ever suggests this isn’t such a good idea—Polanski knows you can’t smoke around antique books; he doesn’t care about facts, but about a mood. Corso creates a noir mood about him as he carries out the investigation he’s been hired to investigate; a true cynic, it means nothing to him, but it pays well. A rare book dealer is accustomed to weirdoes.

As Corso (a name with overtones of running to an end) proceeds in the investigation into the book, people wind up getting murdered. A sense of destiny is added to this, as each murder is prefaced by Corso looking at an engraving in the book, where the people in the engravings look remarkably like each of the victims. Added to this are mysterious forces that seem to be forcing Corso along the path, aiding him to accomplish his task: A black-gloved killer, his own employer, the mysterious girl with mismatched socks (who may be Satan).

One catches Polanski paying homage to several masters of horror, including Hitchcock, Argento, and himself. There is a black-gloved killer following Corso, murdering many of those he comes into contact with—not unlike in Deep Red. However, there will be no grand unmasking in this film: try as I might, I can find no simple answer for who the black-gloved killer is, after seeing the film many times. A devil cult make an appearance, but perhaps with a hint of self-deprecation, Polanski has Frank Langella strangle the cult’s leader in front of the members, while they watch, and later flee, in terror.

The end of The Ninth Gate is perhaps given away in its credit sequence. It can leave the viewer disappointed and annoyed; it can also leave the viewer with something to think about. Can Corso’s cynicism be moved to outright evil? Does he realize the forces he’s gotten himself mixed up in? What is Polanski, one of the greatest horror filmmakers of all time, really up to? What is he trying to say about horror, reflecting on his past career in the genre?

For a film I find so intriguing, a film that yields some new discovery every time I watch it, while always entertaining me, it is startling how neglected it is in discussions of Polanski and in discussions of horror films of the last decade. Made in only ’99, The Ninth Gate is still fresh and has a lot to offer.

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*Note that I purposely chose not to mention Polanski's life, which is usually brought up in discussion of his work. But for any Polanski scholars out there, there's doubtless a fair share of 'personal' material to be found in The Ninth Gate.