The Limits of Control

As a film critic (sort of), do I have the right to grant a director a certain limit of self indulgence if he's never failed me in the past? I think so. Apparently other critics disagree. The Limits Of Control, the latest film from American master Jim Jarmusch, is also the worst-reviewed film of his career, scoring a rather pathetic 26% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. To an extent, I do understand the hatred. While the film is not ideologically complicated, it is a bit difficult to sit through. The entire thing is a few minutes of silence, followed by a short amount of dialogue, repeated for 115 minutes, the main character only says six or seven full sentences, three of which are in the final scene, and the entire thing is obviously more concerned with aesthetic than plot. Conveniently, these are things that I tend to love. Now, it does run a bit long, and there are some clearly overly self-indulgent touches from Jarmusch, but sometimes you just have to accept these things. It's not a perfect film by any means, and it probably won't hold up anywhere near as well as Stranger Than Paradise or Dead Man, but I'm still pretty sure that it's worth seeing.
The characters are not given names, so I'm just going to use the descriptions given by IMDB (which has the film erroneously titled No Limits, No Control). The main character, "The Lone Man," a hired assassin is played by Isaach De Bankole, who has appeared in a few of Jarmusch's films before, but never as a lead. It opens with him meeting the "creole" and "French," who give him a speech on life, and how anyone who thinks they're better than others should go to the cemetery, because then they see what life is: dirt. This idea is constantly repeated throughout. They then give him a matchbook with instructions for his next contact, a man with a violin. He goes to Spain to meet him (the rest of the film takes place in Spain, I'm not sure where the opening took place). He goes to a cafe, orders two espressos in two separate cups (something else that is repeated throughout), and meets the man, who gives him another matchbook, and the cycle goes on. It all sounds rather boring as a description, so I'll just go with the highlights. Tilda Swinton plays a mysterious blonde contact who discusses film, and the idea that the best images in film are the same as our greatest dreams (I'll get to this later). Paz de la Huerta plays a contact who is nude for the entirety of her screentime. I had no problem with this. A contact on a train discusses molecules. John Hurt plays a contact who discusses the nature of Bohemianism and gives Isaach a guitar. Gael Garcia Bernal is a contact who discusses history and myth. Someone is killed (not on screen), and our only real chance to see Isaach's emotions is blurred in shadow, which was probably the right decision. Finally, at the end, Bill Murray plays the target of this convoluted assassination, and he, as others have pointed out, is clearly channeling Dick Cheney, and he discusses power and control. After his mission is over, Isaach cleans up and goes on. We never know who ordered it or why any of this has happened, but I guess it doesn't matter.
I probably shouldn't have spent so much time on plot. It's not that relevant. Basically, it's saying that technology and government are bad, while bohemianism and art are good. Nothing remotely new or groundbreaking, and that's not the point in this film. First, it's probably important to discuss De Bankole's performance. The camera is focused on him for nearly the entire time, and it studies his face and body. During the silent scenes, he is near-perfect, and, after Jarmusch's homage to Le Samourai in Ghost Dog, it's hard not to compare him to Delon's protagonist in Melville's masterpiece. Then he occasionally opens his mouth, and these moments aren't as good. His dialogue isn't that great, but he doesn't do too much with what he gets. Still, the physical nature of his performance is fantastic. There's also the music. Jarmusch uses a post-rock score to perfection, and the film picks up whenever the music starts.
However the real star of this film is Christopher Doyle's cinematography. In my opinion, Doyle deserves to be mentioned in at least the same category as Roger Deakins and Emmanual Lubezki, arguably the two most well-known working cinematographers among most film buffs (with good reason). To quote a friend of mine, Wong Kar Wai's masterful "In The Mood for Love will make your eyes cum rainbows," and Doyle's photography is a huge part of it. While The Limits of Control may not reach that level of beauty, it is still a fantastic looking film. The shots of the actors and settings, using great lighting and Jarmusch's standard lingering pauses, pull the audience in and allow us to look around if we're not in love with what's happening on screen, although many of these pauses do last a bit too long. During the first part of the film, there are some shots that seemed really obviously cinematic in nature, which sort of bugged me, but Swinton's speech on beautiful images in film and dreams clears this up, and almost makes it a commentary on those shots in Jarmusch's past work (although I don't know if that's how he meant it to be seen). As we are reminded throughout the film, "reality is arbitrary," and there are moments where the color shifts, the background appears to be a bit off or the editing brings attention to itself (this last one really doesn't work too well here) that remind us of this idea.
Overall, it is an undoubtedly beautiful film, with some very good performances and great music that's hurt by an ultimately shallow premise, a bit too much lingering (and this is coming from someone who considers The Werckmeister Harmonies his favorite film, so there is a lot of lingering) and questionable editing. I wish I hadn't made this blog under a 4-star system. I don't think it's a three-and-a-half star film, but it's better than a three. Well, I guess this is where that benefit of the doubt I was talking about comes in.
Final rating (out of ****): ***1/2