The Ninth Gate — The Devil’s Tome Polanski Couldn’t Be Bothered to Read

The Ninth Gate: full review

The scent of aged leather and yellowed paper hit me before the screen even flickered to life. The Ninth Gate isn’t a movie; it’s a ritual object, a cinematic grimoire that Roman Polanski dusted off from his own obsession with the occult. Released in 1999, smack in the middle of the post-Fight Club esoteric thriller boom and pre-The Da Vinci Code hype, the film promised to be Rosemary’s Baby for cursed book collectors. But Polanski, in a fit of gothic self-indulgence, delivered something that smells more like mothballs than sulfur. It’s not that the movie is bad—God forbid—but it’s like an expensive wine that’s turned to vinegar: it’s got body, it’s got aroma, but in the end, it leaves a lingering aftertaste of missed opportunity.

The context couldn’t be juicier. Polanski, perpetual exile and master of psychological suspense, dove into adapting The Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte with the intention of crafting a cult thriller. The problem? The Polish director seems far more interested in production design—those shots of ancient books, those decaying interiors—than in the actual plot. The Ninth Gate is a film that wallows in its own aesthetic, as if Polanski mistook mood for message. And what a mood it is: Darius Khondji, the cinematographer, bathes every scene in a golden, shadowy light, as if we’re seeing the world through the pages of an illuminated incunable. But what about the substance? That’s where the whole thing crumbles like a parchment left too long in the sun.

Johnny Depp plays Dean Corso, a mercenary of rare books with the charisma of a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman. Depp, in his "actor who always looks like he’s about to yawn" phase, moves through the film as if trapped in a fever dream he can’t wake up from. It’s not his fault: the script, penned by Polanski himself, strands him in a limbo of cryptic dialogue and situations that unfold with all the urgency of a monk transcribing a manuscript. Corso is an antihero without spark, an occult detective who seems more lost than a tourist in the Tokyo subway. Beside him, Frank Langella as Boris Balkan steals every scene with the voracity of a vulture at a feast. Balkan is the only character who seems to know what he wants: power, forbidden knowledge, immortality. Langella plays him with a mix of aristocratic elegance and contained madness, like a villain straight out of a Huysmans novel. He’s the only one who seems to understand that The Ninth Gate isn’t a movie about books—it’s about obsession.

The shoot, by the way, was a logistical nightmare. Polanski insisted on filming in real locations across Spain, France, and Portugal, chasing that authenticity that only comes when the budget skyrockets like a rocket. The Ceniza twins, played by José López Rodero, are a delightfully macabre detail: two bookbinders who look like they’ve stepped out of a Goya painting, with their gaunt faces and bony hands. But even these moments of visual genius are tarnished by a pace that drags like a lost soul. The film runs 133 minutes, but it feels twice as long. It’s not boring, mind you: it’s like being trapped in an endless library, where every bookshelf is more beautiful than the last, but none of them lead to the exit.

Direction and Mise-en-scène: The Labyrinth Without a Minotaur

Polanski constructs The Ninth Gate like a gothic labyrinth, but he forgets to include the minotaur. Every shot is calculated to the millimeter: dark hallways, spiral staircases, close-ups of hands turning pages with reverence. There’s one scene in particular, where Corso examines one of the book’s engravings under a desk lamp, that’s pure visual alchemy. Khondji’s lighting makes the paper seem almost organic, as if the illustrations are breathing. But the problem is that Polanski seems more interested in the how than the what. The plot lurches forward, with twists that arrive without warning and explanations that explain nothing. It’s as if the director decided that ambiguity was a valid substitute for coherence.

The performances reflect this approach. Depp, as I’ve mentioned, seems to be on another planet—not in a good way. His Corso is a flat character, without edges, as if the actor decided the best way to play a mercenary of rare books was to act like he’s in a trance. Lena Olin, as Liana Telfer, has moments of intensity, especially in the scene where she tries to seduce Corso with the promise of a forbidden book. But even she seems trapped in a script that doesn’t know what to do with its female characters. Emmanuelle Seigner, Polanski’s real-life wife, appears as "The Girl," a character as mysterious as she is unnecessary. Her presence is pure atmosphere, like an expensive perfume that never quite settles.

The production design is, without a doubt, the film’s strongest point. The interiors of the mansions, the private libraries, the bookbinding workshops: everything is crafted with meticulous detail. The film breathes authenticity, as if every scene was shot in the exact place where the action takes place. But even here, there’s an excess. The film wallows so much in its own aesthetic that it ends up drowning in it. It’s as if Polanski wanted to pay homage to the gothic cinema of the 1960s but got stuck on the surface, without delving into what makes that kind of cinema work: fear, tension, the sense that something terrible is about to happen.

Screenplay and Pacing: The Book No One Bothered to Finish

The screenplay of The Ninth Gate is a perfect example of how a great premise can be ruined by lack of development. The idea of a book containing the keys to summoning the devil is fascinating, but Polanski treats it with a clinical coldness that ultimately deflates it. The dialogue is cryptic to the point of incoherence, and the characters seem to move through the plot like sleepwalkers. There’s one scene where Corso visits Baroness Kessler, played by Barbara Jefford, that’s a small masterclass in contained tension. The baroness, an old woman who seems to know more than she lets on, warns Corso about the dangers of the book. But even this moment of brilliance is tarnished by the fact that, in the end, the scene leads nowhere.

The pacing is another major issue. Polanski seems obsessed with the idea that suspense is built on slowness, but he forgets that slowness without purpose is just boredom. There are entire sequences that could have been cut without the film losing anything. For example, the scene where Corso travels to Portugal to visit Victor Fargas, played by Jack Taylor, is visually stunning—with those shots of the flooded library—but narratively irrelevant. Taylor, by the way, is magnificent in his brief appearance, as a scholar who’s lost his mind. But his character, like many others in the film, is little more than an extended cameo.

Wojciech Kilar’s score, on the other hand, is a triumph. His music, with its Gregorian choirs and ominous chords, is the glue holding together a film that would otherwise collapse like a house of cards. Kilar understands that The Ninth Gate isn’t a conventional horror film but a gothic thriller, and his score reflects that duality between the sacred and the profane. But even the soundtrack, as brilliant as it is, can’t save a film that seems more interested in its own image than in telling a story.

The best

• The cinematography of Darius Khondji: Every frame is a baroque painting, with a palette of golds, reds, and blacks that turns the film into a visual feast. Khondji makes even the most mundane objects—a book, a lamp, a hand—seem charged with hidden meaning.

• Frank Langella as Boris Balkan: Langella steals the film with a performance that oscillates between the aristocratic and the demonic. His Balkan is a memorable villain, a book collector who seems more interested in power than knowledge.

• The production design: The locations, sets, and props are meticulously detailed. The film breathes authenticity, as if every scene was shot in the exact place where the action unfolds.

• The music of Wojciech Kilar: Kilar’s score is a masterpiece of gothic suspense, with Gregorian choirs and ominous chords that elevate every scene to an almost mystical level.

The worst

• Johnny Depp as Dean Corso: Depp seems to be on another planet, playing a character without spark or charisma. His performance is flat, as if the actor decided the best way to play a mercenary of rare books was to not act at all.

The film’s pacing: The Ninth Gate* drags like a lost soul, with scenes that go nowhere and a script more interested in ambiguity than coherence. 133 minutes that feel like twice that.

• The female characters: Lena Olin and Emmanuelle Seigner are wasted in roles that lack depth. Olin has moments of intensity, but her character is little more than a cliché. Seigner, meanwhile, is pure atmosphere, without development or purpose.

• The lack of tension: Polanski seems more interested in aesthetics than suspense. The film has visually stunning moments, but it lacks that sense of imminent danger that a gothic thriller should have.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

The Ninth Gate is a film that fascinates and frustrates in equal measure. Polanski delivers a gothic thriller with impeccable aesthetics, dazzling cinematography, and production design that borders on perfection. But all that technical virtuosity is tarnished by a script that doesn’t seem to know what it wants to say and a pace that drags like a lost soul. Johnny Depp is lost in a role that doesn’t suit him, while Frank Langella shines as a villain straight out of a dark fairy tale. The film is beautiful, yes, but it’s also cold, distant, and ultimately empty. Like an ancient book with blank pages: pretty on the outside, but with nothing to say. 💀

The Ninth Gate: frequently asked questions

What is the rating of "The Ninth Gate" on Claqueta Ácida?

"The Ninth Gate" scored 6.8/10 on Claqueta Ácida in the review by Bastian Noir.

Is "The Ninth Gate" worth watching?

With reservations. We gave it 6.8/10 (Citric Acid), our rating for uneven films with something worth saving.

Who directed "The Ninth Gate"?

"The Ninth Gate" was directed by Roman Polanski.

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Theater Collateral Damage Report

Psychophysical impact certificate issued by Bastian Noir

⚡ Moderate Wear

🥱 Yawn-o-meter

2 amagos en el tramo intermedio; pestañeo pesado en las transiciones más innecesarias.

⏱️ Panic Clock Checks

Un par de miradas al reloj en el tramo intermedio, comprobando cuánto quedaba de suplicio.

😬 Cringe Index 1.3/10

☕ Caffeine Prescription

1 espressos para no dejarse vencer por la mediocridad cómoda.

💥 Derailment Point

"A mitad del segundo acto cuando la subtrama secundaria empezó a pesar más de lo que aportaba."