The Limits of Control (15.)
Directed by Jim Jarmusch.
Starring Isaach De Bankole, Paz De La Huerta, Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, Bill Murray, Gael Garcia Bernal. 116 mins.
The latest Jim Jarmusch is a The Bourne Ultimatum by way of Antonioni: a stony faced prank in which all the elements of populist espionage entertainment – a taciturn cold blooded hero, coded messages, secret assignations, trust nobody paranoia, naked women emerging from hotel swimming pools – are taken and stretched out into a dry, obtuse arthouse movie.
Bankole plays a mysterious man of inaction who may be a spy, may be a hitman, but is clearly not legal. Apart from a spot of Tai Chi the most animated thing he does is occasionally unbutton his jacket. His mission involves travelling around Spain, sitting in cafes with two espressos in separate cups, and waiting for more famous actors from around the world to arrive for their cameos. These involve the exchange of cryptic messages in matchboxes and then failing to engage him in conversation on a topic that interests them; over and over again. Repetition is a big part of this film.
The title comes from Burroughs, but Jarmusch has always been a man to keep things within his own parameters. This is a man who made a film about a jailbreak that omitted to show the jailbreak. (There’s a similar omission here.) He’s always been a master of taciturn, deadpan minimalism but his previous films are explosions of Felliniesque exuberance compared to this button down affair.
If you’re a fan Jarmusch has been one of the most exciting film makers to come from American indie scene: Dead Man, Ghost Dog, Mystery Train are some of the best American movies of the last couple of decades. And to be honest it’s a little painful to see him indulge in such an arid seeming exercise. The man heard snoring within 15 minutes of the film starting was surely just feeling the effects of a long day but torpor will be a common reaction to it. Once you have got a measure of what to expect, the only thing that keeps you going is wondering if the film is going anywhere with this.
The answer, rather surprisingly, is yes. In the last few minutes the film does enough to convince, me at least, that it had a depth and purpose. In a typically perverse Jarmusch move, this is a film that finally peeks your interest in its closing scenes.
Directed by Jim Jarmusch.
Starring Isaach De Bankole, Paz De La Huerta, Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, Bill Murray, Gael Garcia Bernal. 116 mins.
The latest Jim Jarmusch is a The Bourne Ultimatum by way of Antonioni: a stony faced prank in which all the elements of populist espionage entertainment – a taciturn cold blooded hero, coded messages, secret assignations, trust nobody paranoia, naked women emerging from hotel swimming pools – are taken and stretched out into a dry, obtuse arthouse movie.
Bankole plays a mysterious man of inaction who may be a spy, may be a hitman, but is clearly not legal. Apart from a spot of Tai Chi the most animated thing he does is occasionally unbutton his jacket. His mission involves travelling around Spain, sitting in cafes with two espressos in separate cups, and waiting for more famous actors from around the world to arrive for their cameos. These involve the exchange of cryptic messages in matchboxes and then failing to engage him in conversation on a topic that interests them; over and over again. Repetition is a big part of this film.
The title comes from Burroughs, but Jarmusch has always been a man to keep things within his own parameters. This is a man who made a film about a jailbreak that omitted to show the jailbreak. (There’s a similar omission here.) He’s always been a master of taciturn, deadpan minimalism but his previous films are explosions of Felliniesque exuberance compared to this button down affair.
If you’re a fan Jarmusch has been one of the most exciting film makers to come from American indie scene: Dead Man, Ghost Dog, Mystery Train are some of the best American movies of the last couple of decades. And to be honest it’s a little painful to see him indulge in such an arid seeming exercise. The man heard snoring within 15 minutes of the film starting was surely just feeling the effects of a long day but torpor will be a common reaction to it. Once you have got a measure of what to expect, the only thing that keeps you going is wondering if the film is going anywhere with this.
The answer, rather surprisingly, is yes. In the last few minutes the film does enough to convince, me at least, that it had a depth and purpose. In a typically perverse Jarmusch move, this is a film that finally peeks your interest in its closing scenes.
