The Limits of Control

Originally run on 4 May 2009. Image by Google.

The Limits of Control is the latest from the patron saint of independent films, Jim Jarmusch (Dead Man, Broken Flowers), and watches like a throw-back to a Jean-Pierre Melville movie if he was really into Zen Buddhism. As with Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes and to a lesser extent Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai, The Limits of Control follows an episodic structure, and has no real central plot. The plot is secondary to the characters that inhabit this world. The focus of the film is on a nameless, suit wearing gun-for-hire (who doesn't carry a gun) played by Isaach de Bankolé (the good African guy in this season's 24 and the ice cream man in Ghost Dog). The camera follows him as he travels from Spanish city to Spanish city, encountering various contacts who give him a coded message, along with a dose of unsolicited philosophical monologues.

Bankolé has the most screen time of the film, but it also includes roles from Tilda Swinton (Burn After Reading, Michael Clayton), Hiam Abbass (the mom from The Visitor), Gael García Bernal (Babel, The Science of Sleep), and the magnanimous John Hurt (who I would watch in absolutely anything). The movie also includes a beautiful actress by the name of Paz de la Huerta, who serves as a compromised version of the film noir sexpot. It's worth noting that she's naked for most of her scenes, and that she also has the only asymmetrical breasts I've ever seen in a movie (maybe the only ones in cinematic history). In a way, her lop-sided breasts serve as a metaphor for the structure of the film—they're compelling, but there's something slightly off that you can't quite put a name to immediately. The Limits of Control isn't bad, but it's very clearly different than most movies about stone-cold, international assassins.

There's a point where a film stops being mysterious and starts being obtuse. It's hard to tell which side The Limits of Control rests on. The plot isn't sparse, it's nearly threadbare, and this isn't helped by the Lone Man's stoicism. There's a brief glimpse at what the film might have been when Bill Murray briefly appears towards the finale. His appearance is wry and funny and carries a lot more energy than the previous hour and a half did. The scene also highlights what the rest of the film was lacking: Bill Murray being an unrepentant asshole. The characters that inhabit this world or their crazy theories are interesting, but they're spaced so far apart that they barely exist as anything more than overheard conversations at a coffee shop.

I know it's barely even May, but it's probably safe to say that The Limits of Control is going to be the coolest film in theaters this year. And much like cool people, Jarmusch's film is an enigma. It's unapproachable and, since it knows it's cool, doesn't feel the need to prove or explain anything. It can simply subsist off of the knowledge that it is cooler than most of the people on Earth, or, you know, filmgoers. Which is fine. Jim Jarmusch is a man who knows exactly what he's doing. He that isn't afraid of making challenging films, but with that said, he also probably knows that his movies aren't for everyone.