The Limits of Control

Isaach De Bankolé deploys an enormous wealth of restraint resisting the sexual advances of a recurring naked female character (Paz de la Huerta) in Jim Jarmusch's new film The Limits of Control.

In one of the Lone Man's rare lines of actual dialogue, he explains to the Nude (yes, that's what the credits call these characters) that he does not believe in having sex while he is working. The Lone Man is mysterious, taciturn, impeccably dressed, and hired to do an unspecified job that does not become clear until the end.

Until then, he's instructed to sit and wait and sometimes travel to various picturesque locations in Spain, and to sit and wait some more, while a varied crew of stylish Jarmusch regulars descend upon him: an almost unrecognizable Tilda Swinton in a white wig, Gael Garcia Bernal sporting a greasy pony tail, Yoko Kudoh from Mystery Train in a scene set, aha, on a train, and John Hurt acting kooky. In every cafe, the Lone Man drinks two single espressos, served -- yes, this is important -- in separate cups.

Forgive my frustration. From his groundbreaking Stranger Than Paradise to his recent, more accessible Broken Flowers, I am inclined to love Jarmusch's films. Certain elements are a given: the cool factor, a slow-moving plot that borders on inscrutability, the hip soundtrack. An emphasis on style. In previous films, however, Jarmusch also provided characters with recognizable motivations and a more than just hints of an actual story.

In The Limits of Control, Jarmusch stitches together aimless scenes on top of scenes, as the Lone Man meets fellow operatives on his nebulous top secret case. Remove any one of the scenes at any cafe and The Limits of Control would not suffer for it. The Lone Man drinks his espressos while listening to ponderous ramblings by the well-dressed people who join him. He does not seem to take any particular interest in anything they say, except for the Nude, who of course, is not dressed except for a pair of clunky black glasses and, in one case, a transparent rain coat. The audience is kept in the dark.

Forgive me again if I don't understand why Jarmusch did not see fit to dress de la Huerta. De Bankolé looks fantastic in iridescent suits in a variety of colors. I'm sure de la Huerta would have looked equally fine in the occasional outfit. The ultimate destination of the Nude's arc (if you can call it that) also didn't sit well with me. Is she being punished for her abundant sexuality?

Forgive me, too, if I don't properly appreciate all the high brow alusions in The Limits of Control: the title is borrowed from an essay by William Burroughs, the epigraph is by Rimbaud, and the film is shot through with homages to John Boorman's Point Blank and the work of Michelangelo Antonioni. And that's only a start -- Tilda Swinton's monologue about watching movies is chock full of clever self-references.

In all fairness, The Limits of Controls is easy on the eyes. Christopher Doyle's cinematography looks gorgeous. De Bankolé and de la Huerta are attractive. The supporting cast is certainly appealing. The music is as hip as ever. There's even some flamenco dancing. What the Limits of Control lacks is a soul. Maybe we are supposed to believe that under De Bankolé's impassive expression, he carries a secret pain. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't. We are never allowed access. The Lone Man remains inscrutably cool from beginning to end. He is is nothing more a hit man for hire who likes his coffee just so.

The Limits of Control (2009)

Starring: Isaach De Bankolé, Bill Murray, Tilda Swinton, Gael Garcia Bernal, Jean-Francois Stevenin Directed by: Jim Jarmusch
Produced by: Jon Kilik, Stacey Smith, Gretchen McGowan
Running Time: 1 hr. 56 min.
Release Date: May 1st, 2009 (limited)
MPAA Rating: R for graphic nudity and some language.
Distributors: Focus Features