People get the wrong idea about King Cnut. They hear about him trying to turn back the tide, and think ‘what an arrogant idiot’. Whereas the whole point was the monarch demonstrating the limitations of his power to those who fawned around him. Smart guy, and one I was reminded of during The Ghost.

Former Prime Minister Adam Lang is holed up at an American benefactor’s luxury beach house, which comes complete with staff. Including a poor gardener who attempts in vain to sweep up the leaves outside: a thankless task since the conditions make it impossible. But this is the world of the wealthy and powerful, and if they desire their view to be untroubled by stray leaves, then so it shall be. But ego is powerless against elemental forces.

Into this world comes Ewan McGregor as a hapless ghost writer, charged with turning a turgid first draft of Lang’s memoirs into something that’ll be a best seller. The first draft was written by an old aide of Lang’s, who was found drunk and drowned, and thus created the vacancy for his successor. McGregor is nonplussed to be doing the job, but reckons his ignorance is an asset — he wants to get to the heart of Adam Lang, and is less bothered by the fine detail of his career.

That political naivity is a calculated choice on the part of Robert Harris, who wrote both the book this film is based on and its screen adaptation. It ensures that this is not a film for politics wonks, but for a general audience. McGregor’s viewpoint is ours, and as he goes from being charmed by Lang to seeing the skills that have made him such a political success, the viewer is drawn along by McGregor the whole way.

Polanski’s craft is pretty much invisible in this film — his emphasis is on telling the story elegantly, and he does so without ever peeking from behind the curtain in the way that many directors would. Where Scorsese would stamp his personality on the material, and Oliver Stone draw attention to his choices, Polanski simply lets it all unfurl. It’s a refreshing and old-fashioned approach, more reminiscent of the days of Hitchcock than Tarantino. Not that I’ve forgotten what I last wrote about Polanski — the fact that he’s a supremely talented filmmaker doesn’t give him a Get Out Of Jail Free card for his sex attack on a girl barely in her teens.

The Ghost is a slow burn thriller that’s developed with meticulous detail, and rewards the attention you pay it: I was saddened to hear a couple talking and laughing through much of the story. Seems she didn’t get some of what was going on and neither did he, but rather than confess he wasn’t following it came up with some alleged jokes to impress his date. A shame — not just for those of us who shared the cinema with them untroubled by incomprehension, but for the implication that the film was somehow difficult, which is far from the case.

One of the film’s major mechanics is status, both in the sense of temporary or ongoing social status, and the boost that possession of information gives a particular character. This was nicely played with throughout, from an opening when the ghost is given the job by a team of publishing professionals from which one English representative is pretty much excluded, to a scene in which Lang’s wife sleeps with the ghost, and another in which the ghost — now in possession of critical information — interviews Lang on his private jet. All virtuoso writing and performances, directed superbly by paedophile Roman Polanski.