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Lone Wolf, Imaginary World
Movie review: "The Limits Of Control"; ***
By Jonathan L. Fischer/The Bulletin
If a theme runs through the films of Jim Jarmusch, it is that of the lone male adventurer — the man on the fringes, the laconic hipster, the prisoner, the modern-day cowboy.
So it should tell you something that the searching, stoic assassin at the center of “The Limits Of Control,” the celebrated independent filmmaker’s latest movie, is named simply the Lone Man. Here is a film about archetypes and ideas — both Mr. Jarmusch’s own, and the ones that fascinate him.
“As I descend down impassable rivers, I no longer feel guided by the ferryman,” reads the film’s epigram, a translated Rimbaud quote, which is our first clue that while “The Limits Of Control” has many texts in mind, its own isn’t really one them. Following the Lone Man (the Ivorian actor Isaach De Bankolé) to locations across Spain as he completes an ill-defined mission, the film displays philosophical, even postmodern concerns with little thought for the narrative and almost none for exposition. Even those seduced by the spacious, Western tone and the Godardian riffs on style and cool will find themselves frustrated by a repetitive structure that yields far too many narrative questions for the film to answer. By the end of it all, it doesn’t even try.
The “control” of the title has numerous meanings: the Lone Man’s lifestyle and demeanor (we frequently see him practicing Tai Chi, and his face is as cold as granite); the tightly structured patterns of the film itself; and perhaps a state of mind, some undefined outside condition from which the Lone Man must break free.
The plot, insofar that it is one, sees the Lone Man fly into Spain, where he checks into a hotel and has the first of a number of meetings with members of a mysterious cabal of eccentrics (or actors, or radicals — it’s never quite clear). Each time, the Lone Man visits a museum to look at some work of art that telegraphs his next rendezvous. These are always set in cafes, where he orders two espressos in two cups (not a double), after which point a contact shows up, delivers a monologue on some topic (music, science, cinema, bohemianism), and then exchanges antique matchboxes with our protagonist. These boxes each read “Le Boxeur” and contain a piece of paper with a code, which the Lone Man memorizes and then swallows. He then goes back to his room, sleeps, perhaps listens to Schubert, practices Tai Chi, lathers, repeats and so on. Eventually he switches locations, from Madrid to Seville and Almeria. It doesn’t take long to identify the pattern, nor much longer for it to grate on our sensibilities.
The Lone Man’s contacts have no names, but recognizable faces. Well-known, talented actors like Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, Gael García Bernal, Hiam Abbass and Bill Murray populate the cast, and for the most part, what they have to say is a variation on one theme: Reality is subjective.
“The universe has no center and no edges,” two or three of them repeat. Mr. Jarmusch has acknowledged certain Buddhist ideas as inspiration, as well as a William S. Burroughs essay and the films of Jacques Rivette. (Watching “The Limits Of Control,” I would have guessed Australian Aboriginal mythology and the films of Godard and Melville.) Like the most agonizing examples of postmodernism, “The Limits Of Control” is heavily metatextual and almost utterly without context. Almost nothing happens in this film, and yet it would take a dozen viewings to reap all its treasures.
For those reasons, I doubt most audiences will find much to enjoy: The film brims with ideas that ultimately — unless one argues that the action is all set inside the Lone Man’s mind — amount to nothing at all.
In the past, Mr. Jarmusch has stitched similar themes to engrossing narratives; it's frustrating that he didn’t manage that task — or even attempt it — this time. And yet, I mostly enjoyed this lesser film by a great director. Even the rambling, unfocused Jim Jarmusch has more to say than most filmmakers working these days.
Jonathan L. Fischer can be reached at jfischer@thebulletin.us
So it should tell you something that the searching, stoic assassin at the center of “The Limits Of Control,” the celebrated independent filmmaker’s latest movie, is named simply the Lone Man. Here is a film about archetypes and ideas — both Mr. Jarmusch’s own, and the ones that fascinate him.
“As I descend down impassable rivers, I no longer feel guided by the ferryman,” reads the film’s epigram, a translated Rimbaud quote, which is our first clue that while “The Limits Of Control” has many texts in mind, its own isn’t really one them. Following the Lone Man (the Ivorian actor Isaach De Bankolé) to locations across Spain as he completes an ill-defined mission, the film displays philosophical, even postmodern concerns with little thought for the narrative and almost none for exposition. Even those seduced by the spacious, Western tone and the Godardian riffs on style and cool will find themselves frustrated by a repetitive structure that yields far too many narrative questions for the film to answer. By the end of it all, it doesn’t even try.
The “control” of the title has numerous meanings: the Lone Man’s lifestyle and demeanor (we frequently see him practicing Tai Chi, and his face is as cold as granite); the tightly structured patterns of the film itself; and perhaps a state of mind, some undefined outside condition from which the Lone Man must break free.
The plot, insofar that it is one, sees the Lone Man fly into Spain, where he checks into a hotel and has the first of a number of meetings with members of a mysterious cabal of eccentrics (or actors, or radicals — it’s never quite clear). Each time, the Lone Man visits a museum to look at some work of art that telegraphs his next rendezvous. These are always set in cafes, where he orders two espressos in two cups (not a double), after which point a contact shows up, delivers a monologue on some topic (music, science, cinema, bohemianism), and then exchanges antique matchboxes with our protagonist. These boxes each read “Le Boxeur” and contain a piece of paper with a code, which the Lone Man memorizes and then swallows. He then goes back to his room, sleeps, perhaps listens to Schubert, practices Tai Chi, lathers, repeats and so on. Eventually he switches locations, from Madrid to Seville and Almeria. It doesn’t take long to identify the pattern, nor much longer for it to grate on our sensibilities.
The Lone Man’s contacts have no names, but recognizable faces. Well-known, talented actors like Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, Gael García Bernal, Hiam Abbass and Bill Murray populate the cast, and for the most part, what they have to say is a variation on one theme: Reality is subjective.
“The universe has no center and no edges,” two or three of them repeat. Mr. Jarmusch has acknowledged certain Buddhist ideas as inspiration, as well as a William S. Burroughs essay and the films of Jacques Rivette. (Watching “The Limits Of Control,” I would have guessed Australian Aboriginal mythology and the films of Godard and Melville.) Like the most agonizing examples of postmodernism, “The Limits Of Control” is heavily metatextual and almost utterly without context. Almost nothing happens in this film, and yet it would take a dozen viewings to reap all its treasures.
For those reasons, I doubt most audiences will find much to enjoy: The film brims with ideas that ultimately — unless one argues that the action is all set inside the Lone Man’s mind — amount to nothing at all.
In the past, Mr. Jarmusch has stitched similar themes to engrossing narratives; it's frustrating that he didn’t manage that task — or even attempt it — this time. And yet, I mostly enjoyed this lesser film by a great director. Even the rambling, unfocused Jim Jarmusch has more to say than most filmmakers working these days.
Jonathan L. Fischer can be reached at jfischer@thebulletin.us
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