Limits of Control, The (Theatrical)

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Ever since his breakthrough hit "Stranger than Paradise" (1984), a film composed entirely of long, laconic master shots, Jarmusch has been described as a minimalist, and with good reason. With the low-key humanist sketch comedies of "Mystery Train" (1989), "Night on Earth" (1991), his minimalism became associated with droll deadpan. He was the man who made lyrical, sardonic, stylish and gentle films about outsiders and dreamers.

But along the way he also made his masterpiece "Dead Man" (1996), a modern-day acid Western and the greatest American film of the 90s. "Dead Man" arrived cloaked in the minimalist trappings and wry humor of his earlier works which probably explains why many critics (with Jonathan Rosenbaum one notable exception) missed the fact that it was an angry, bleak film, a scathing indictment of American amnesia about its genocidal past. Here Jarmusch´s trademark lassitude is periodically disrupted by abrupt explosions of violence, a major shock to for viewers who thought they had him pegged as the master of mellow. "Dead Man" is still a minimalist film about outsiders and has its share of quirky comic touches, but it is also an apocalyptic nightmare.

Jarmusch´s next feature film "Ghost Dog" (1997) was similarly violent but felt like a minor, though highly entertaining, nostalgic riff. The director returned to his roots with the release of the multi-year project "Coffee and Cigarettes" (2003) and appeared, horror of horrors, to move in a more commercial direction with "Broken Flowers" (2005), by far his most successful box office performer.

Anyone fearing the director would continue to move to the mainstream can rest easy. With "The Limits of Control" Jarmusch has thrown both fans and detractors his sharpest curve ball yet. With "Limits," Jarmusch unhitches his wagon from petty concerns such as narrative and character altogether.

Jarmusch´s films have always been fairly straightforward in terms of clarity, but here he takes an oblique approach to his severely stripped-down narrative. The film uses John Boorman's "Point Blank" as its launching point (the production company is called PointBlank Films) but pares down that already sleek thriller to its barest essentials.

Our unnamed protagonist, identified in the credits as The Lone Man (Isaach de Bankolé) is an agent of some kind, probably an assassin. He arrives in Spain and meets with a series of contacts who are also identified (in the credits) by a single attribute: The Creole, Violin, The Driver. They exchange matchbooks which contain either payments such as diamonds or tiny notes with scribbled codes that The Lone Man quickly reads and then eats. He rarely speaks and when he does he often limits himself to "Yes" or "No." He spends a lot of time sitting at outdoor cafes, walking through alleys or hallways, and lying in hotel beds even though he doesn´t appear to sleep.

That´s not the only thing he doesn´t do in bed. A mysterious woman (Paz de la Huerta) appears in his room one day. She is The Nude and she lives up to her name, spending all of her screen time partially or completely naked. She is a distillation of the femme fatale, but her considerable wiles are lost on The Lone Man. She will not seduce him and lead him to his doom because he does not have sex while he´s working. Instead they lie in bed together, he clothed, she naked. As far we see can tell, nothing happens.

The same can be said for the rest of the film. Aside from semi-interludes with The Nude, nothing in particular happens until the end when something in particular happens. It is something particularly odd and I won´t reveal it save to say that it involves Bill Murray in a Dick Cheney-esque secret bunker and, despite that set up, it´s not funny at all. After a single viewing, I find it perplexing but I´m certain that it shares quite a bit with the accusatory spirit of "Dead Man." It is one of the first times (the second time, actually) in which The Lone Man expresses any kind of emotion, and minimalist though it may be, it is an eruption of anger and outrage that argues rather obstinately for the power of the imagination and a rebellion against all authority. A title card after the end credits helps quite a bit: "No limits, no control."

Critics who wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares about hipsters lurking under the bed will accuse the film of being too cool for school, substituting empty chic for substance. This is nonsense, but it is superficially understandable nonsense. Most characters are defined only by behavioral quirks or colorful costumes (Tilda Swinton shows up in trenchcoat and blonde wig as the aptly named Blonde). They spout cryptic aphorisms like "The universe has no center and no edges" and "The reflection is more real than the thing being reflected." The film is built on a series of mechanical repetitions. Everyone who meets The Lone Man asks "You don´t understand Spanish, do you?" He is repeatedly asked if he is interested in things such as art, music or movies and he refuses to answer the questions each time.