Chinatown (1974)

Halfway through Roman Polasnki’s perfect crime noir “Chinatown,” the femme fatale played by Faye Dunaway bumps a car horn with her head during a moment of distress. The noise startles her and seat mate PI Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson). It is the coldest punch of foreshadowing I’ve ever seen, and I only noticed it on what may have been my 15^th (?) viewing. The next viewing I noticed a new twist: Gittes’ love of horses. That’s the beauty of Polanski’s tale of 1930s Los Angeles and ex-cop Gittes, who spies on wondering spouses, and wears fine suits. Plot: The wife of LA’s water engineer hires Gittes to bust her cheating husband, except the woman isn’t the engineer’s wife, and when the man turns up dead, Gittes realizes he’s been played. Gittes takes action. Except the cruel joke of “Chinatown” is Gittes is a fool, so lost and clueless the deeper he sinks into ancient familial evil, by film’s end he is left in shock, helpless. Robert Towne gets the screenplay credit, but Polanski wrote the unnerving finale. Polanksi’s direction is as smooth as jazz, with perfect interior car shots. As the villain, John Huston plays a monster for the ages. A+

Repulsion (1965)

Roman Polanski has done far more film-wise to make apartments the living embodiment of psychological hell on Earth than anyone alive, and saying his low-budget English-language debut “Repulsion” stands above “Tenant” or “Rosemary’s Baby” is one massive compliment. Catherine Denevue plays Carol, a manicurist living with her aloof sister in London, zombie shuffling to and from work, staring at sidewalk cracks, and from her bedroom to the loo, staring at the razor of sister’s (married) sugar daddy. She glazes out, does not talk, and fears the leers or touch of any man. In quick succession, a suitor comes on strong and her sister leaves for vacation, acts that push Carol off her ledge into shocking hallucinations and depraved acts. Carol has a past that purges out at the finale as we learn her hellish torture is not over by half. Polanski works with brimstone, fear, and one hell of an actress, laying the way for the nightmares of “Baby,” his horror masterpiece of stifled women. Sick irony or inevitable that Polanski had his own misogynistic demons to spew years later? A near-unbearable must-watch classic that left me gasping, and spawned the recent dark daughter of “Black Swan.” A+

Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Roman Polanski’s gothic “Rosemary’s Baby” is the greatest paranoid horror film, wildly spinning on marriage and expectant mommy-hood with a massive dash of brimstone, and satanic milkshakes. It sets a scene inside a telephone booth in which nothing happens but a phone call and still drives the panic needle to 666. That’s insanely genius filmmaking, from God and/or hell. Based on Ira Levin’s novel and Polanski’s American writing/directing debut, “Baby” follows waif/ housewife Rosemary (Mia Farrow, perfect) as she moves into a castle-like NYC apartment with fledgling actor hubby (John Cassevettes, just slightly creepy). The couple instantly befriends the eccentric old folks (Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer) next door. Soon Guy is a hit and Rosemary is pregnant. Enter, Satan. Polanski is a shit, but he knows heart-crashing shock is found in the mundane -– the daffy, smiling old lady serving a tasty homemade snack. Best WTF-just-happened-? cliffhanger ending ever. The neighbors terrify me no end: My Philly childhood eccentric, elderly neighbors fed me odd concoctions and drinks 24/7. I sweat bullets now, “All of them witches!?!” Who the hell will ever know, eh? One of my Top 25. A+

The Ghost Writer (2010)

Let’s me say it upfront: Roman Polanski is an snake bastard. The guy should be in prison, not making films. But, damn it, he is one gifted filmmaker. His latest movie is “The Ghost Writer,” a tense thriller that packs a political grenade inside a cache of classic movie lying, cheating, double crosses and swindling. It recalls those great thrillers from when I was a babe, such as “The Conversation.” It also maybe a very dark comedy/satire ala "The Manchurian Candidate."

Ewan McGregor plays the never-named title character, a novelist on the skids who takes a job as the second ghost writer of the in-the-works autobiography of one Adam Lang, former Prime Minister of England and now the target of a possible war crimes trial. Why the second? The first fella drowned, washed up on a New England beach after a fall from a ferry. Or some such incident. Soon enough, Writer No. 2 finds himself in the kind of trouble that would send Bruce Willis into a coma.

“Ghost Writer” crosses the tracks and double backs a dozen times, and even if I saw some of the path ahead, I sure as hell didn’t know exactly how I was going to get there. Nearly every scene, including the final frame, can be taken at least three ways, and all of them more clever than the last. (And funny, darkly nasty funny.) MIA from any real good film since 2001’s “Moulin Rouge,” it’s a treat to see McGregor back in leading-man status. And is it me, or is Brosnan at his best playing a dick?

When Polanski is released from prison after many years, I hope the SOB goes back to work. Movies such as this are too scarce in today’s “Transformers,” spandex-wearing super hero world. Enjoy it while it lasts. And, yeah, I feel dirty for liking this man's work. A-