THE LIMITS OF CONTROL
Written & Directed by Jim Jarmusch
Produced by Gretchen McGowan & Stacey Smith
Released by Focus Features
Spain/USA/Japan. 116 min.  Rated R
With Isaach De Bankolé, Alex Descas, Jean-François Stévenin, Óscar Jaenada, Luis Tosar, Paz de la Huerta, Tilda Swinton, Youki Kudoh. John Hurt, Gael García Bernal, Hiam Abbass & Bill Murray 
 

A man arrives at an airport in Spain. He sits with two gentlemen, and the kind of conversation that one would expect in a Jim Jarmusch film takes place—understated, odd, and filled with mysterious lines like out of an obscure poem. The man (Isaach De Bankolé) is given a pack of matches with a slip of paper containing some numbers. What do they mean? What is this journey that he proceeds to go on across Spain, first to see the sights in Madrid (or rather two sights—he sits continuously at a cafe, always ordering two espressos in two separate cups, and a museum where he stares at one particular painting)? Why does no one have a name? What does The Limits of Control mean at the end?

For Jarmusch, the meanings are precisely enigmatic, though not completely indecipherable. His modus operandi with this film, as with his previous ones (Stranger Than Paradise, Dead Man, Broken Flowers) is that each audience member should take what they see in the film as they will, so that it’s impossible to generalize the characters’ mission, if there is one.

While there is the element of a crime film sprinkled throughout—De Bankolé exchanges diamonds filtered in a matchbook with each mysterious figure at the café—it’s largely a film that unsettles; it intentionally messes with one’s senses. It’s more relatable to poetry than conventional storytelling, with an emphasis on repetition, be it in the scenes at the cafe, or the shots of De Bankolé with an oddball nude woman (Paz de la Huerta) who keeps showing up in his bed, or just De Bankolé and his tai chi routine.

The film’s a puzzle with a kinship to Antonioni’s L’Avventura, where characters followed a plot that leads to a kind of sustained nothingness. But where Antonioni bartered almost aggressively in a brilliant cinema of boredom, Jarmusch’s aim is to keep the viewer glued to the screen, even when not much at all is going on, which is rare achievement. De Bankolé’s every little flinch or glance is crucial, and his journey is intriguing because of its lack of the usual genre definition. It’s also a singularly physical performance, with the grace and intuition of a silent film star, and hopefully his performance here will make his name known outside the art-house crowd. Also kudos must go to Tilda Swinton, dressed in a white trench coat and wearing a blond wig, as a subtle parody of a film star pontificating on The Lady from Shanghai. She has unforgettable Jarmusch lines, like “The best films are like dreams you’re not sure you really had.”

Jarmsuch has a new director of photography this time, Christopher Doyle, who somehow merges his very warped sensibilities in his sense of framing, space, and lighting with Jarmusch’s cool and low-key approach. We even get something rare in a Jarmusch film with a jittery, tense hand-held scene. Adding to this is a musical score that has a mystical, trippy edge. (Some of the music is by Bad Rabbit, Jarmusch’s own band). Just know, simply, that it is a Jim Jarmusch film, not a movie to see as a cure for insomnia. To be corny for a moment, it’s like a dream you’ll want to have and repeat. Jack Gattanella
May 1, 2009