Movie Review: The Limits of Control
Jim Jarmusch Film Stars Isaach De Bankolé, Tilda Swinton, John Hurt
Apr 30, 2009
At its best, abstract art is roughly akin to a Rorschach blot, a canvas for the viewer to project their own meaning. At its worst, abstract art proves the tale of The Emperor's New Clothes: the piece's failure to communicate its objective is not the artist's fault, but the idiocy of the Great Unwashed, whose senses have been opiated by shallow kitsch.
Which leads us to Jim Jarmusch's latest film, The Limits of Control. An independent filmmaker who has brought audiences such hit-and-miss fare as Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai and Coffee and Cigarettes, Jarmusch's new film is an example of repetition building meaning . . . but to what purpose?
Jim Jarmusch's The Limits of Control Stars Isaach De Bankolé, Tilda Swinton, Bill Murray
A lone stranger (Isaach De Bankolé) travels through Spain on a strange quest. Along the way, he runs into increasingly bizarre guides (played by John Hurt, Tilda Swinton and others) who direct him to a series of increasingly dilapidated locations. Judging by their furtive behaviour, these guides want him to perform something illegal; based on their dress and self-indulgent monologues, they have a bohemian view of the world.
This quester is divorced from everyone else, immune to human hungers, not needing to sleep. His cold gaze and series of glossy suits suggest a shark and, to make that comparison increasingly apt, he is always moving. When a nude woman (Paz De La Huerta) offers him her body, he refuses: "Never when I'm working." Only music and the visual arts appear to soften his forbidding exterior.
Through the film, visual and aural motifs are repeated as mantras, disconnected phrases that apparently mean something. "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" at least two characters observe; "When a man feels he is greater than anyone else, he must go to a cemetery. There he will learn an important lesson: that all life is dust," others say or, in a nightclub scene, sing.
Repetition is an effective device both for erecting, and tearing down, meaning. But which aim is Jarmusch trying to accomplish? He ain't saying in this film, and it feels like he's toying with the audience simply for his own pleasure.
Toying with an audience isn't necessarily a bad thing: viewers appreciate being tormented in films like The Usual Suspects or Memento because the pay-off is so spectacular. But when the pay-off is also enigmatic, then audiences just feel used.
On the plus side, Christopher Doyle's cinematography is nothing less than spectacular, offering dreamlike images of the Spanish landscape through which our predatory protagonist crosses to reach his destination. It's a shame these visuals aren't in the service of a more compelling story.
The Final Analysis
as the philosopher David St. Hubbins once observed, "It's such a fine line between stupid, and clever."
Whatever meaning Jarmusch wants audiences to glean from The Limits of Control remains an enigma wrapped in a mystery smothered in espresso. Whether viewers will see this film as a Rorschach blot or wankery most vile remains to be seen; however, it feels like the latter.
The Limits of Control gets a 4/10.
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