Limits of Control, The (Theatrical)

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Isaach de Bankolé is practically a living freeze frame, his stony face implacable and impenetrable. His blank expression dares viewers to interpret it at their own peril. In some scenes, he stares at a painting in a museum as music swells on the soundtrack. We might be tempted to think he´s having an emotional reaction to a work of art, but there´s no evidence to support this. What we see is simply an impassive stare that is repeated over and over again until it becomes the defining image of the movie.

With all due respect to the film's naysayers, the iconic clothing, the goofy pseudo-philosophical dialogue and the icy glares don´t add up to a film that strives to be tragically hip or interminably cool. Rather, the film offer a series of inscrutable codes, like those on the tiny slips of papers that The Lone Man gulps down, that are not meant to be broken. This is a world that, in the spirit of the French nouveau roman (new novel), focuses on surfaces and objects. There are numerous inserts of keys, coffee cups, the ubiquitous matchbooks and the most important surface-object of them all, The Lone Man´s face. They are important in their own right, just as important if not more so than story or character not because of any hidden messages one might tease out of them but simply because they are filmed.

"Limits" is a game of sorts, challenging the viewer to seek meaning where there may not be any. Are we supposed to make anything of the fact that every one of The Lone Man´s contacts wears glasses but he doesn´t? I don´t know, and I don´t care. Once "Limits" is out on DVD viewers will have the chance to freeze frame the slips of paper The Lone Man gulps down. Perhaps they will crack the code, but I don´t see how that would be any fun.

The fun here is in the experience of simply watching and listening, each of equal importance. "The Limits of Control" has one of the most evocative ambient soundtracks I have ever heard. In almost every scene, we are made privy to the bustle of the surrounding neighborhood. Even when The Lone Man lies in bed staring at the ceiling, we hear cars and voices from outside. Even in a simple shot where The Lone Man watches The Mexican (Gael Garcia Bernal) walk to his truck, the soundtrack is filled with barking dogs and chirping birds. The only silent moments are when The Lone Man does his meditation exercises.

Jarmusch´s films have always been about music as much as image, character or plot, and "Limits" is no exception. Neil Young´s pounding, repetitive score for "Dead Man," described scornfully but amusingly by Roger Ebert as the sound of "a man repeatedly dropping his guitar," is one the movie´s most important structural elements and also happens to be my favorite soundtrack of all-time. The score for "Limits" is provided by the experimental trio Boris and its layered electronic feedback will probably not please listeners who didn´t care for the Neil Young. I thought it was fantastic but I lack the musical terminology to describe it well so I won´t try.

As for the images, they are the product of Jarmusch´s collaboration with the renowned cinematographer Christopher Doyle. The movie pulsates with vivid reds and metallic grays and is replete with beautifully composed images of all kinds: blurry lights, darkened streets, landscapes, city skylines, paintings. And faces. Jarmusch´s films have studied many memorable faces from Richard Edson in "Stranger Than Paradise" to Gary Farmer in "Dead Man," and de Bankolé´s face is every bit as remarkable as any of them. To say that he holds the screen in his close-ups would be a gross understatement. De Bankolé´s tight-lipped glower is a lid on a boiling pot. It´s hard to believe this is the same actor who played affable, smiling, Chatty Cathy characters in three previous Jarmusch films.

"Limits" even challenges viewers to identify the intended tone in individual scenes or in the film as a whole. A scene that plays as comedy to one viewer might seem menacing to another. That trademarked Jarmuschian wry humor is certainly at play here, but for me it´s the righteous rage that ultimately defines the film as manifest in that perplexing climax that I promised not to talk about.

With little in the way of narrative, character or even a definitive tone, what are we left with? Image and sound. Also known as cinema. If that and just the bare bones of a story aren't enough for you, then this is probably not your movie. But if you´re willing to silence your inner interpreter and simply look and listen, you may be in for a special experience.

"The Limits of Control" is Jarmusch´s boldest work since "Dead Man" and though it is probably not the equivalent of that great film it is still an impressive achievement, simultaneously alienating and mesmerizing. I´ve already watched it twice in three days and I´ll be going back again soon.

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