Despite obvious references to the past decade’s socio-political climate–especially between Great Britain and the US–I loved this film.

(Haliburton, Tony Blair, Condoleeza Rice, waterboarding and more make less-than-subtle appearances disguised as fictional cousins of themselves.)

Were it not for director Roman Polanski’s fugitive tendencies, which dominated the film’s press tour, I think the merits of his work would have been highlighted by American media. It’s such classic and thorough Polanski. I think if this ends up being his last film, it would be a simple and solid testament to his vision.

It has mood. Almost Hitchcockian, The Ghost Writer keeps you on the edge of your seat without guns, fast car chases, or even blasts of cursing or shouting. The furtive glances Ewan McGregor makes through his rearview mirror as the piano creepily plops along…aah! I felt the same way I did during Rear Window or Dial M for Murder.

Not that Polanski copied Hitchcock. His own tone was all over this. Largely set in Massachusetts (with interludes in London), the film is a work of art in itself. From Kim Cattrall’s perfectly tailored suits (in shades of black, white, and grey), to the tinge of grey in Olivia Williams’ hair and her casually sweeping black yoga suits and scarves, the costumes are subtly tied into the larger atmosphere.

The main house (where a large part of the dialogue takes place) features floor-to-ceiling glass walls with views of a gravelly Atlantic. The few walls with no windows are blocky with more ceiling-high pieces of modern art–again in all muted colors. The effect highlights the actors, as their skin and hair and lips are the main bursts of color in the film, their language extending out of those hues, making the audience grab onto every word and glance. The impact lingers days after watching the movie.

The plot itself, however, takes a back seat to the acting, set, costumes, score, and cinematography. It’s your basic international espionage thriller. Ewan McGregor plays a ghostwriter (never named, even in the final credits he is simply “The Ghost”). He is hired to write the autobiography of Great Britain’s previous Prime Minister (Pierce Brosnan) after the original ghostwriter mysteriously drowns. Enter the terse First Lady who says more with her eyes (and sometimes body) than her mouth; the PM’s too-efficient and too-blonde female assistant; and a few high-ranking former Cambridge pals with secrets to spare, and you get the picture.

The Ghost is barely on the scene before the PM is accused of war crimes by the Hague, and a media storm erupts. We let the pre-programmed GPS from the previous ghostwriter take us here, we Google there, we find pictures from the 1970s, we get clues and furtive glances.

We are locked in suspense. How Polanski manages to take something that could have been your run-of-the-mill Bourne Identity Part 15 and make it both beautiful and intriguing—without heartthrobs, rock bands, or motorcycles even—is a testament to good filmmaking.

If you’re a fan of earlier Polanski, like Chinatown or The Pianist, you will like this film. If you’re not, but you like thrillers and your partner refuses to sit through anything with The Rock in it, this movie is also for you.