Ghost Dog and Cross-Cultural Filmmaking
By Scott Hoch
As a film lover, it is a real treat to explore and discover movies from all backgrounds and time periods. Every movie is a time capsule that reflects the world at a moment in time, crystalized and preserved.
American movies, for example, can teach you what the Hollywood system was like, what audiences’ tastes were, and the sorts of themes or messages filmmakers felt important to express at the time. Once you understand the language of film, it's easy to dissect and trace influences, like a sprawling web of connections to fellow film and art lovers.
Enter Jim Jarmusch’s Ghost Dog. While there are still a few Jarmusch joints left to explore, this one stands out as a favorite—and not just because it features an abundance of birds. Jarmusch’s films consistently examine connections and contradictions across culture and class, but Ghost Dog feels like his most fully realized version of those ideas. The film offers a Black samurai, aging gangsters behind on rent, schlubbing around a dinky Chinese restaurant—and, as the radio cheerfully reports, ice cream is healthy these days.
Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is an independent American film that deals with themes of violence, poetry, meditation, human nature, and death. What are the things that bind us together and why do things always seem to get turned around on us? What happens when two men from dying breeds have to kill or be killed?
Violence in Ghost Dog is not treated as a problem to be solved, nor is it fetishized. Instead, it is presented as natural and matter of fact. The world is a chaotic jungle, and each person must find their own way to make sense of it. Some choose law enforcement, others become gangsters; Ghost Dog chooses the way of the samurai—a warrior’s code to live by, and an acceptance of inevitable death in service of his master. It is an ancient path, but sometimes the ancient ways are the best.
Jarmusch draws direct influence from classic hitman films such as Le Samouraï and Branded to Kill, while also pulling from chambara cinema, hip hop, Eastern philosophy, kung fu, and even Yoruba culture. These elements are smashed together into a cinematic collage that initially appears singularly authorial yet reveals itself as deeply collaborative. From RZA’s fantastic score (and cameo as the camouflaged samurai), to Robby Müller’s minimalist cinematography that echoes the contemplative calm of the Hagakure, to Forest Whitaker’s essential performance—without whom, Jarmusch has said, the film would not exist—every contribution is felt. It is this trust in collaborators and embrace of disparate influences that gives Jarmusch’s films their distinct identity.
All of this is to say: there is no way Ghost Dog could exist within the traditional Hollywood system. Entire scenes would be cut (the boat scene, for one), and the pacing would be completely different. In an era of streaming and storytelling constantly pressured to restate its plot, this film feels like a breath of fresh air. It slows down. It takes its time. It doesn’t spoon-feed the audience—it simply exists, inviting viewers to sit with it, notice the details, or just vibe. Ghost Dog is a moody, contemplative dream of a movie.