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41 out of 58 people found the following comment useful :-
Drifting along the current of Jarmusch's mind., 10 May 2009

Author: The_Black_Rider (AnglicanGallows@aol.com) from New Jersey

"As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers," says Arthur Rimbaud at the start of The Drunken Boat, a poem about being lost at sea. These two lines serve as the epigraph for The Limits of Control, a spiritual odyssey from Jim Jarmusch, one of the pioneers of the independent film scene in America back in the 1980s when independent film-making meant more than a quirky release from Fox Searchlight.

The Limits of Control drifts through its two-hour running time like a transcendentalist willingly riding the infinite current. It is nothing if not a tone poem with Jarmusch endlessly riffing on the linguistics of his film like a veteran jazz musician. The most striking of these elements is the cinematography by Christopher Doyle who treats the Spanish landscape like a canvas; every color on-screen is imbued with the thick, rich texture of fresh paint. Editor Jay Rabinowitz cuts the images together rhythmically, separating each moment into its appropriate stanza. Finally, the soundtrack, primarily produced by the noise bands Boris, Sunn O)) and Bad Rabbit – fronted incidentally by Mr. Jarmusch himself – washes over the mise-en-scene and completes the hypnotic tableaux.

After making feature films for 25 years, Jarmusch has delivered his most confident and skillful work to date, and whether or not you as a viewer decide to indulge in his vision depends on the limits of your self-control. At times, the pervasive variations on the same scene, with the Lone Man drinking double espressos in separate cups while his mysterious contacts lecture him about films or music or art or drugs, does little but agitate. The Limits of Control recalls Dead Man, Jarmusch's brilliant psychedelic western in which Johnny Depp navigates his way into death both physically and spiritually, but unlike Dead Man, it is impossible to connect with the film on a human level. In fact, the Lone Man hardly seems human at all. As such, it's difficult to care about what happens to him by the end of the film.

Then again, that's not really the point of the piece. To criticize it based on traditional narrative requirements seems pointless anyway. Either you will allow yourself to be swept away by the current of The Limits of Control or you will sink into your seat and repeatedly look at your watch for the forthcoming two hours. This is the most difficult review I've ever written simply because there is little to say beyond a recommendation to see it for yourself and make up your own mind. Personally, I need to see it again. In its surprisingly thrilling conclusion, featuring a chilling albeit brief performance by Bill Murray as he channels the worst of Cheney and Rumsfeld, all the puzzle pieces fall into place in the form of a moment of clarity. Perhaps fully knowing what to expect upon a second viewing will allow for the spiritual experience it desires to create. At the very least, it is a film by a master who has miraculously managed to stay defiantly non-commercial in an industry that worships at the alter of the Almighty Dollar. And that alone deserves our respect.

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32 out of 43 people found the following comment useful :-
A Zen Masterpiece!, 3 May 2009

Author: Lemmywinks616 from South Africa

*** This comment may contain spoilers ***

Sit back, open your mind, watch the magical pictures genius cinematographer Chris Doyle paints and let Jarmusch take you to a new world. This movie is an instant classic, uncompromisingly inviting the viewer to fill in the blanks while being enchanted and entertained. When the lights came up at the end of the screening, I wanted it to go on for hours more. Of course it can be hard work staying with such a quiet, obscure plot, but anyone who walks into a Jarmusch expecting Crank 2 is bound to be disappointed.

Comparisons with Dead Man are inescapable, but possibly have been overemphasized... The Limits are a very different animal: Visually, the potent use of color alone, sets it far apart (Theories on the use of dark orange, anyone?) and -despite appearances- I think Limits is a far darker vision. The repetition of the "La vida no vale nada"-poem is a reminder of a deep angst and deliberate struggle with meaninglessness at the heart of the story.

Isaach De Bankole's stunning features serve as an anchor throughout, although I found his carefully one-note, almost robotic performance a bit too much in some scenes. This would be my only real criticism. -The fact that the Lone man takes himself so seriously had me longing for a moment of humanity, self-deprecation or exhaustion every now and then, just to keep the audience with him and stop his extreme of cool from sliding off into seeming arch. He presents a superego without an id or an ego- Romance or passion are foreign to him, physical needs don't go beyond caffeine and tai-chi. He doesn't even sleep. Seemingly representing the cinema-goer entering the film, the protagonist enters the foreign world of Spain. Observing, receiving information, never responding, never engaging- except to destroy a cell phone. (Nice hint, Mr Jarmusch!) He is presented with philosophical ideas from every person he meets, but never replies. Just like an audience can only engage with any film it sees internally. The final act -and only real action- of the film could be read as the conscious choice to not submit to the controlling, disillusioned machine of "Hollywood cinema", but to limit it's control and remain true to the potentially illusionary values presented by his matchbox-giving guides. To deliberately choose a subjective path less traveled by.

Every conversation -or rather monologue- is left hanging in the air and begs to be continued in the viewers mind. Tilda Swinton, looking futuristically sexy yet classical in her role as a sort of incarnation of cinema, tears open the meta-reality especially far when she lightly observes how much she likes people sitting silently in films. Followed by a spell of the characters sitting silently on screen. Notably, she is the only one who gives Lone Man more than just a note. Her matchbox contains diamonds as well, as if Jarmusch wants to say: "Science, music, sex etc all give me something, but film is where I am given the most precious thing."

As his surroundings change from modernist Madrid, to Gothic Seville, to the bare bones of the Andalusian desert it is as if the Lone Man is traveling backwards in time, absorbing, with every encounter, one of the trappings of an artistic/ bohemian life that stands in the against the idea of societal control: Concepts of music, films, sex, hallucinogens are each absorbed with the ingestion of the papers in the matchboxes. His final encounter with the Bill Murray character erases the personification of control itself, in the form of a corporate/political caricature of the ultimate freudian father figure, leaving the Lone Man at a point of rebirth as he finally takes off his silk suit and fades into the embracing mass of humanity... His final matchbox note is blank. -No more control. The poetic sensitivity, originality and sheer ambitiousness of this movie make me want to get down on my knees and thank Mr Jarmusch and Focus Features for making it. We need more films like this!

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28 out of 42 people found the following comment useful :-
Post-Modernist Fun, 11 May 2009

Author: GeneSiskel (robert.e.olsen@gmail.com) from Washington, DC, United States

"The Limits of Control" is a post-modernist exercise. It doesn't tell a story. (There are apparently no stories worth telling on a planet defined by a singer as dirt.) Rather, the movie borrows the plot lines and dialogue of film noir, the preoccupations of French art criticism, and other semi-art cinema fare, and recombines them in a heavily ironic and lushly sensual setting, (1) to draw attention to itself and (2) to comment on dreams, art, and the making of art.

Does it take itself seriously? Not really. Is it fun to watch? Of course. Who wouldn't enjoy watching a reclining nude woman with a revolver try to get her man (who responds "never while I'm working")? A laconic buff control freak in service to wise guys methodically inspect, and then eat, the coded messages that arrive at his patio table in matchboxes? A series of go-betweens solemnly ask the central character, in various languages, "Do you speak Spanish?" before launching into their wild-eyed explications in English?

The only part of the movie I found disappointing was the ending, a paean to flights of imagination wrapped in a faux action film climax. Bill Murray is simply unconvincing as a bellicose bad guy and the resolution is all too neat. But until then the dreams are great, the cinematography is first-rate, and the acting is top-drawer.

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20 out of 28 people found the following comment useful :-
A film of mystery and silence, 7 June 2009

Author: Howard Schumann from Vancouver, B.C.

It has been said that God is a circle whose center is everywhere and whose perimeter is nowhere. In the beautiful and enigmatic The Limits of Control, director Jim Jarmusch puts it this way, "The universe has no center and no edges" and, "everything is subjective", or "reality is arbitrary". Based on a script of only twenty five pages, The Limits of Control is about an immaculately dressed but emotionally frozen hit man (Isaach de Bankolé) who goes from place to place awaiting further instructions. He has no overview of the entire game plan but waits for his next move whenever he meets the next contact.

Set in Madrid and Seville as well as some isolated villages in the South of Spain, the cinematography by Christopher Doyle, who has worked extensively with Wong Kar-wai, is filled with elegantly-composed images of dark streets, barren landscapes, city skylines, and world class paintings. Getting his instructions at the airport before leaving for Madrid from Creole, played by the French actor Alex Descas, de Bankolé is told simply to go to a café and look for the violin. Further instructions come from various people he meets along the way in the form of a greeting "you don't speak Spanish, right?" and the exchange of matchboxes, one of which contains a curious code which the hit man simply eats. De Bankolé hardly ever speaks other than to say "yes" or "no." We learn little about him other than he prefers two cups of espresso served in separate cups and that he practices Tai Chi. We also discover that he likes women because we can see that he is tempted by the naked beauty Paz de la Huerta who suddenly appears in his hotel room. Although he openly admires her backside, he tells her that he never engages in sex while he is working (though I've never seen anyone who is working do such little work). As de Bankolé goes from location to location, each scene becomes a variation of the one that came before. Included are some provocative sequences such as repeated visits to an art gallery in Madrid, and a scene inside a bar in which de Bankolé watches a rehearsal of an exquisite flamenco dance in which the singer delivers dialogue from the first scene of the film warning us like some spiritual guru about the limits of ego.

"Those who think they are important", he sings, "wind up in a cemetery – a handful of dust". Along the way, we are introduced to some of recognizable stars. Tilda Swinton in a platinum wig, white cowboy hat, and boots talks about film noir, saying how she admires characters that never speak. Luis Tosar talks about musical instruments. Youki Kudoh speaks about molecular reconfiguration and the things that are possible in science. John Hurt tells us about the origins of the word "bohemian". Gael Garcia Bernal talks about how consciousness can be altered by psychoactive drugs like Peyote. Finally, Bill Murray as the ugly American corporatist says that our minds have become polluted by all of the subjects that have been previously discussed.

Supported by a soundtrack of electronic music by the trio Boris, The Limits of Control is a film of mystery and silence and unexpected twists that is about the power of imagination and poetry to operate without arbitrarily imposed limits. Sensing that we are in a period of change, Jarmusch says, "I almost feel like we're really on the cusp of an apocalypse of thought because all of these old models that they tell us are reality are all crumbling." What the "apocalypse of thought" will look like is uncertain but the film has a hypnotic, dreamlike quality that challenges the distinction between what is real and what is a product of the mind. In the film's final sequence, de Bankolé surveys a compound guarded by masked security officers with guns. The next minute, we see him inside the compound confronting the object of his search. When asked how he got in, he simply replies, "I used my imagination." If you want to know how that occurs, I would echo the film's message and say – use your imagination. That's all that there is anyway.

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17 out of 24 people found the following comment useful :-
Limited appeal, yet still appealing..., 3 June 2009

Author: Ecstatic_Tickle from Ireland

Having recently discovered some more of the man's fascinating back catalog (Mystery Train, Night on Earth) I was keen to continue on down the Jim Jarmusch trail by taking time out during my visit to Frankfurt to check out his latest film in an arty-house sort of place that showed it in English. Much to my amusement and confusion I was reminded how so many of his films are multi-lingual and so I did spend some of time trying to decipher German subtitles for some French and Spanish dialog. Oi...anyway, the film itself is very sleek. I mean ridiculously so - shot composition is on the money and the general texture is very rich - as you'd expect. As I'd heard this is one of Jarmusch's most abstract and seemingly inconsequential works. There is certainly a distinct lack of clarity and a disregard for the audience, and yet an intricate attention paid to the senses. We follow an enigmatic loner played by Isaach De Bankolé, a man with a vague mission - who indulges in yoga and double (seperate) espressos as he journeys to various cafés in European quarters swapping matchboxes with the most peculiar individuals each with the same manner of conversation but particular subject to discuss, peculiar...not least of all the otherworldly Tilda Swinton, who in a post-Oscar bizarre cameo - talks about how much she enjoy films in which the characters say nothing at all, cue an awkward silence. And what do we hear in this silence? The sound of Jarmusch's compulsive self-referentialism and pointedly post-mo yet playful nature. I like it, even though at that point the plot is a mystery, and by that I really mean it really became a mystery to me. The general dynamic of the piece seems to stem from the conflict between the liberal bohemian world and that of capitalism and secret intelligence. There's really not much substance, just plenty of repetition and cinematic rhyming - no dramatic impetus to speak of, only an ambiance one is invited to soak up and a compelling cast doing not much at all. Hiam Abbass is criminally underused, Gael Garcia Bernal smoulders for a scene or two...Bill Murray seems miscast and kick-ass all at once. There is a climactic scene involving a helicopter that seems to aim to draw everything together...but you really have to wonder about Jarmusch's intentions with this one. Nevertheless it's very smooth. Episodic, sparse...intoxicating. Worth taking the time out to see if you like the style, but even for Jarmusch it seems to lack any of the engaging set-pieces or even the fleeting substance of his other films.

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16 out of 24 people found the following comment useful :-
Post-Modern Espionage, 9 May 2009

Author: Joseph Sylvers from United States

*** This comment may contain spoilers ***

The Limits of Control is a film about spies, interchanging notes in matchbooks, and coded phrases and short monologues about art, music, and film, usually in a café on bright afternoons in Spain.

Isaach De Bankole plays an all but silent nameless protagonist, who wears a series of matching one color suits; blue, brown, and silver, does tai-chi regularly, and always orders two espressos in separate cups. He goes to art galleries, and may see a painting of a violin, and then a man will sit down next to him at a café, nervously with a violin, and tell him every instrument contains every song it has ever written. The two exchange matching match books, of separate colors with "Les Boxer" written in french, and then Bankhole is off again. This mechanism repeats for roughly two hours, as phrases and images repeat and proceed each other through each brief encounter.

There is no exposition, we never learn, who he is, what he is thinking, what the messages or conversations mean, or why he is doing what he does. I use the word "spy" loosely, because the scope of Bankole's mission is never revealed, and involves diamonds, assassinations, an ancient guitar, mysterious men in black stuffing people into vans, and Bankole's refusal to use cellular phones. It's a postmodern espionage film where the characters don't seek out truth, but communicate in deception and deal in relativity.

A modern "Blow-Up", another existential minimalist thriller, steeped in the fashions, and trends of it's day, only with a sense of humor. Antonini see's his hipster photographer as morally bankrupt his spiritual emptiness matching the sparse nature of the film, while Jarmusch's Bankole is calm absorbing the scenery, practicing tai-chi(as all sound drains from the film, putting the viewer in an even calmer stillness inside him than the one we see in the film), he doesn't have sex on the job, even when the nude Paz De La Huerta makes repeat visits to his apartment(they platonically sleep together; her nude, he in trademark suit) though his job seems to consist of only waiting, talking,trading,and his not concerned neither with taking a side or seeking revenge. The opposite of Antonini's tortured artist, is Jarmusch's nonchalant mute hero, "Reality is arbitrary" he tells Bill Murray, known as The American.

The conversations are not random, though we cant know what they multiple meanings they may have for Bankole, they orbit themes of perception and subjectivity. Some of the first words of instruction he receives are "everything is subjective" , "the universe has no edges and no center", "use your skills and your imagination", and the ominous "he who thinks he is bigger than the rest must go to the cemetery. there he will learn what life really is, dirt.". These words are translated by a third party because as everyone whom he meets asks him upon first meeting, he doesn't speak Spanish.

With exposition erased, we are shown the first of several layers of perceptual limitations. We cant know what Bankole's character knows beyond the surface level of meaningless gestures and dialog, but we also can't escape the paranoid shadow that everything no matter how minute has a meaning. There is a black helicopter that precedes and follows Bankole throughout the film, but its effect is equally a stifled suspense as it is traditional Jarmuschian deadpan.

When Bankole sits with Tilda Swinton, in platinum white wig and cowboy hat, she tells him she she "likes it in old movies when people just sit quietly without talking", a double jibe, both at Bankole's character's stoic calm, and the films own absurd preoccupations with the small details of life. Later he sees a poster of what looks like a gaillo film with a women dressed just like Swinton. Did she dress to match the poster, or was the poster a sign meant only for him?

The Limits Of Control is a free-form minimalist poem against the shadow of a paranoid espionage thriller. It has a "Rear Window" like ratio of concept to action, in Rear Window you could say "dude call the police or quit peeping, duh! Movie over.", likewise you could make an empty statement that this was "Cofee and Cigarettes", but longer and without the cigarettes. But that would just be to not see the forest through the trees.

One of the last images is a painting of a covered painting (an image Bankole saw earlier as an actual covered painting hanging on a wall), is a camera close up of the contours of the folds in the sheets of the image. Though, conceptually the painting shows us a blot on our perception, the blot itself( the sheet's folds, bends, and contours), create a texture all of it's own. That's what this film is, a blot full of small textures, seeing the limits of perception, the limits of control. The point where you are unmoored and must use your "skills and imagination". The film is preceded by a Rimbaud quote about a ferryman swept away by the currents as soon as he touches foot to water.

We see into Bankole's thoughts only once, when he imagines he sees Paz De La Heurta, in a hotel window across the street. Likewise he only smiles once when he watches an explosive a rendition of a Falencio song, whose lyrics are the first words of dialog he is told in the film.

I saw this in a theater by myself in the early afternoon, I was the only person in the theater. After reading some of the reviews, that empty theater seemed a pretty good parallel to the icy reception it's getting so far. But it's the best film I've seen in 2009 so far. And one of my favorites of the decade, hypnotic, absurd, intelligent, and plain cool, but then again I was the only one in the theater...

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12 out of 17 people found the following comment useful :-
Slow-paced and captivating political mystery with a subterranean anarchist impulse, 21 May 2009

Author: rasecz from United States

*** This comment may contain spoilers ***

The plot of this film develops like good minimalist music. A pleasant tune repeated over and over with minor variations. For a film such as "The Limits of Control", the number of repetitions may seem excessive, but they are essential in building a subtle interpretation that crystallizes at the end. At every repetition a different actor or actress interacts with the hero. Notice their continent or country of origin: African, Haitian, French, Spaniard, English, Japanese, Mexican, Palestinian, even an American. I may have gotten some of the nationalities wrong, but the crucial point is that they represent a diverse sampling of the world population. What do they have in common? They are all working together for a common purpose. Their enemy is revealed at the end. Arrogant, imperialistic, trying to control everyone and everything on this earth. Its symbolic representations in the film may not be picked up early on, but by the end one can easily replay its omnipresence right from scene one.

It should be easy to understand the political message before the curtains come down, but just to be sure, the final call to arms that accompanies the credits makes obvious the film's anarchist leaning. In this there is a delightful irony. For a story whose overarching philosophy is the destruction of excessive control in the world, the minimalist plot development is controlled to a precise degree. The steely hero is a model of self-control, precise habits, and consistent suits. Each stage in the travels of the hero is almost a replay of the previous state: the same two espressos, the same Boxeur matchbox but for alternating red and green, the same hiding place for secret messages, the similar three lined letters-and-numbers coded message, the same method of disposing of the message, the same introductory question and similar subsequent culture-laced monologue we eventually come to expect from each co-conspirator cameo.

Superimposed on this repetitive structure are the cultural references. Some are clearly meant to be humorous and subject to additional interpretation. The best for me what a wig wearer who uses a skull to hold the wig when not in use. A camera close up reveals this to be the cadaverous head of Andy Warhol.

Art plays a part. Our hero is a museum goer. It is natural to suspect that each visit to the museum to see one particular work of art whose subject matches a prop that will be used to contact the next co-conspirator serves a purpose. Are these part of the secret instructions? I think the answer is given by the last visit to the museum. The piece is a white sheet covering an underlying canvas. We don't know what is painted on that canvas. We only see the white sheet. Precisely! There is nothing that needs to be seen. That's the point for that stage in the film. Well done!

There are bits of cinema commentary that I saw as poking fun at Hollywood. The multiplex crowd expects James Bond to get in bed with the first beauty that crosses his path; our hero does not do sex while working. The same crowd wants guns to be used; our hero dumps the only gun in the film in the trash bin. The crowd cares to see the hero fight to get his quarry; our hero never fights, corners his quarry with imagination and we never see how he does it. The crowd is thrilled by lots of silly threatening dialogue and much action before good vanquishes evil; our hero is terse and wastes little time. The typical Hollywood villains have to be at least equal and often more cunning than the good guys so that the battle is suspenseful; our villain is a bumbling fool who gets trapped by his own paranoia-driven security apparatus. And so on. It's the anti-Hollywood film par excellence. No wonder it does not do well with that crowd.

Commentary on cinema culture is also there. When a cell phone rings inside the bag of a co-conspirator, our hero takes the phone, throws it on the floor and stomps on it. Ah, quiet! I wish I could do the same to all the electronic gadgets with their bright screens that more and more people are using during movie screenings.

In short, there is more than meets the eyes here. The film is made enjoyable by the need keep track of three components. One, the easiest, following the plot, which is simple and advances slowly. Two, picking up the political message, which is mostly done late. Three, deciphering the asides and symbolic clues that are peppered throughout.

If that were not enough, add to the overall enjoyment superb cinematography and delectable music. And don't be upset by the occasional pessimist view on the human condition. When the guitar player concludes his monologue with "La vida no vale nada," you'll come to understand it later. (And by way there is no accompanying legend.)

A final word for those cinephiles in the Third World. Remember how you felt at the end of the closing scene of the film "Queimada", when Brando gets it? "The Limits of Control" will make you relive it.

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6 out of 8 people found the following comment useful :-
Two hours of my life I'll never get back..., 12 November 2009

Author: moonmaedyn from United States

At least Bill Murray had a way out. I didn't. First time in my life that a movie made me wish for a nice, fat cyanide capsule to end my suffering. It wasn't even "funny" bad, like Lesbian Vampire Killers, or Adventureland.

Without giving anything away, as a viewer, you find yourself sitting there with question marks over your head wondering how on earth anyone secured funding for something like this AND how someone could actually get PAID to write it.

No beginning...no end. And mindless drivel in between.

It was just bad bad bad. Sorry.

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14 out of 24 people found the following comment useful :-
A film lover's dream, 19 June 2009

Author: Daniel Saner (imdb@darksouls-realm.com) from Ebikon, Switzerland

This is a tough picture to review, although I can really only come to one conclusion: you have to watch it for yourself. Jim Jarmusch based it on the idea of making an "action movie without action", and I think that's pretty accurate. The film follows a mysterious man around Spain, where he meets with even more mysterious contacts and exchanges secret messages. Clearly he is on a mission, a dangerous and illegal one. But what is his job? Who does he work for? These questions will keep you on the edge of your seat. All the ingredients of a frantic crime thriller are there, yet the film keeps a slow pace. What exactly is going on here?

Never has it been so thrilling, beautiful, and entertaining to watch a man walk around. The audience never knows what to expect, everything could be significant. In contrast, the mysterious man never hesitates, everything he does is carefully planned and executed, according to plan. Clearly, someone is pulling the strings. Someone, somewhere, is "in control". The camera, however, focuses on this man, one cogwheel in a large machinery. You're always aware that you only see part of the picture, that everything would make sense if you could just zoom out and know a little more.

"The Limits of Control" plays with a lot of established film clichés, and it teases you with your expectations. You are familiar with the form Hollywood movies have converged to over the past decades, how they are put together and what they have in common. Mainstream productions carefully avoid surprising their audience because after all, some of them could be disappointed or irritated. You think you know what you're up against, because you've seen it before. But "The Limits of Control" will fool you. It does not care about conventions, it tells the story it wants to.

However, this means that the film actually expects you to have been spoiled by the countless movies you've seen. It helps to know a few things about film genres and eras, but it is downright essential to have seen a number of common spy movies, action flicks, mystery thrillers. If you're not familiar with the narrative conventions used in movies, you will most likely not get the point. This made me wonder whether it is acceptable to recommend a movie if it cannot be thoroughly enjoyed without having that kind of film experience beforehand. But in the end, movies are always about one thing: whether you will have a good time watching it. And I think it must have been years since I last left a theater so delighted.

The thing is that this wouldn't be the movie you show your friend who is only just starting to develop an interest in films. For those who have been devouring movies for some time, who know a thing or two about their strengths and weaknesses, and the way they tell stories, this film is an incredible piece of art. In any case, it does however require an open mind because it might initially be hard to "keep up" with the slowness of the movie. But if you can cope with anything more sophisticated than a Michael Bay movie, you should do fine. Just don't expect to have the story and all the explanations shoved down your throat. Half of the movie takes place in your head, because you are trying to make sense of what is happening.

In more technical aspects, De Bankolé gives a breathtaking performance. At first it might not seem like he's doing much, but then you realize how perfectly every move, every look, every word, spoken or unspoken, fits the scene. The film's mystery is built on his presence, and it must have been a terrible pressure to carry so much responsibility for the atmosphere of the movie. The result is a lead character that is several times cooler than any babbling wiseacre (à la Pulp Fiction) could ever be. I was also amazed by the appearances of Tilda Swinton and John Hurt. Not only their characters, but also their lines which are symbolic for the level this movie works on.

You know how movie reviewers sometimes have to look for that perfect moment for a screen capture? A frame that is beautiful to look at and, without any motion or dialog, is able to give readers an idea of the movie's style? It must be a hell of a task for this film, because you could take such a frame from almost any of the scenes. It is in this consistently high quality, in any area, that the experience of Jarmusch as a filmmaker really shows. Every moment, every scene is carefully set up, perfectly composed and just beautiful to look at, like a picture in itself. Every word spoken is deeply meaningful, almost every sentence is a one-line word of wisdom or food for thought. Sounds are carefully used, as are the minimal musical snippets. Often, there is just a very poignant silence.

I suppose that if you are trying to decide whether you are going to watch this movie, having heard what people say about it, you wonder whether you will be disappointed in the end, whether it will just be a succession of pointless scenes. This was also my concern, but I promise that you won't feel cheated in the end. I don't care for posh movies that try to be as "artsy" as possible just for the heck of it; "The Limits of Control" is genuinely entertaining, and it is as much a part of traditional cinema as it is a reflection upon it. It is a minimal thriller, a mystery feature in the true sense of the word. You will think, you will theorize, and you will simply enjoy taking in the sights and sounds. The dream-like feel, the questions, the thoughts will accompany you for a long time after you have left the theater.

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14 out of 25 people found the following comment useful :-
Jim, next time you get a midlife crisis, buy a Harley like the rest of us, 1 September 2009
Author: lefaikone from Finland

I think I can somehow imagine what Jarmusch was trying to deliver with this - some sort of an existentialistic feeling of being abandoned in this world, and how arts and music etc. reflect our world-view and life in general. May have worked in theory, but definitely not in practice. To me, Jim Jarmusches works are all about cutting the technical nonsense to the minimum, and replacing it with powerful inner depth, such as interesting and multileveled characters - this one seemed to be the other way around.

The whole thing smelt like new wave and Godard ten miles away, with the whole style, and all the references to it (for example the Spanish girl holding the gun to Bankolé's face was almost exact reference to Godard's Made in U.S.A.) - and I didn't like the scent of it one bit. It was superficial, and didn't evoke any feelings in me. It was like Jarmusch was trying to speak with a language that wasn't his own. And the whole anti-capitalist "black James Bond" theme came as just naive to me.

About the only things that left me a good taste in my mouth, was the feeling of loneliness and emptiness that it delivered, plus John Hurt's short appearance with his monologue with the Kaurismäki- reference. That's about it, and even the mood was almost ruined by the two-pence Neil Young that kept on howling on the back.

Never would have believed to say this about a Jarmusch movie, but it was a huge disappointment.

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