Nice blowjob and great porn movie in which a skeleton falls in a-grave-love with a MI6’s hen. Love Actually (there’s a lot of snow in this movie) with Agatha Christie in place of Nighy. Then you wake up, all wet, and realise that you have seen a movie called The Ghost Writer two years ago. Damn it was a long sleep. The plots start alike (an isle, an idiot asshole, unfavourable meteorological patterns), but are the differences that make the Polanski’s movie a way better. First, there are no women. Just a bored Olivia Williams. McGregor, a real little man, found easy and natural play the role of a little man. A great Polanski’s insight and a hard choice, since he had to pick between him and Hugh Grant. The ghost, as Blomkvist, dreads. The first because forget the umbrella, the second because some bad guy tears his cat into pieces. At this point, He starts a brief journey into alcoholism. It doesn’t kill him because lack of time, but it would have been awesome sneak into the life of a alcoholic swearer scared to death.

Finally, Fincher forgot to book Brosnan. A severe oversight.