Hypnotic, elliptically opaque and dream-like, “The Limits of Control,” may test the limits in which Jarmusch fans call themselves card-carrying Jarmusch fans. If “Broken Flowers” was his most accessible (and financially it was), ‘Limits’ might be his most willfully esoteric or at least a nod towards the past (though really it’s the auteur doing whatever he pleases at any given moment).
A moody tone-poem, all one needs to do to become basically acclimated with the atmospheric tenor of the film is to recall William Blake, Johnny Depp’s character in the existentialist Western, “Dead Man,” which carries similarly languorous and evocatively pensive qualities (both also begin with quotes by French writers; Arthur Rimbaud for ‘Limits’ and Henri Michaux for the austere Western).
‘Limits,’ is a ghostly, wormhole-like enigma that has zero interest in solving itself. An existentialist thriller as much as it’s a metaphysical noir, Jarmusch’s latest vacillates between the push and pull of a surrealist, perception battle (for the protagonist, the stoic and leaf-like still Isaach De Bankolé) and the more traditional thriller that’s almost an afterthought, or at least contains just as many traces of equivocation.
Scattered amongst the moments of “plot,” the free form picture is mostly concerned with levitating between the psychedelic haze of conscious and subconscious states. Subjective and objective realities are constantly being alluded to in the obscure and coded dialogue and while the film is still rooted in tangible, “normal” scenes, in essence, it feels vaguely Lynchian (odd, displaced, and humorous, especially a flamenco nightclub scene) at times, but by and large there are no aesthetics that take it into any fantastical realms other than some lens-flared moody camera work from the great Christopher Doyle (while it looks good, the palette is less sumptuous than say, “In The Mood For Love”).
Instead, the spellbinding qualities and tone come from mantra-like repetition, oblique reoccurring motif clues, and the picture moves like a feverish somnolence one cannot escape (references to Rimbaud, William Burroughs and the refracting hall of mirrors from “The Lady Of Shanghai” are there for all good reasons).
What we can glean from the narrative: DeBankole’s loner character takes on a mysterious gig, he meets up with two upscale wiseguy thugs in Charles de Gaulle airport and is given an abstruse mission in Spain; the messages of which are given via traded matchboxes that include little pieces of paper with equally impenetrable instructions that he comically and methodically chews up and swallows after reading.
Each match box leads him to a different communique (Tilda Swinton John Hurt, Gael Garcia Bernal, Luis Tosar, Youki Kudoh and Hiam Abbass,) with further clues and instructions for the vague mission (again, this all inferred and the rules of this game are tacit throughout (“do you speak Spanish?” and the Spanish-only trope “la vida no vale nada,” – “life has little value” – are two recurring dialogues).
‘Limits’ framework is wantonly constructed in a formalistic loop or perhaps a pebble in the water, with each ripple reverberation out a familiar, but growing pattern until DeBankole’s coyote-spirit character meets his ultimate destination (the “American,” Bill Murray; all the characters have no names outside the credits, John Hurt is listed for example as “Guitar”).
Perhaps Radiohead’s lugubrious “I’m not here/this isn’t happening” displacement refrain (lament?) from Kid A’s “How To Disappear Completely” would have made a fitting theme as whether parts or any of what what the characters experiences is real is up for debate (“reality is arbitrary” is one slanted statement, “the universe has no center or edges” is another).
Japanese and perhaps Ozu-istic in its stark ritualism, the film meticulously sticks to mode and tone that extend to palettes wardrobes and songs for what seem to the three division of the picture (and perhaps a nod to Boorman’s “Point Blank,” as Bankole’s cryptic, almost reality-shape-shifting criminal, wears three different colored suits to represent all three stages).
Much like the music of the film, Jarmuch’s 10th feature acts more like a self-perpetuating echo or drone than it does a traditional story. And despite all the fine ambient doom metal acts he uses in the film to sustain the sleepwalking, half-conscious mien, its his Bad Rabbit band and their coiled, coral-snake ominous rock that really is the most effective (shades of the acid-soaked Doors, but the best connotations only).
Jarmusch’s sway with talent is certainly evinced by the quality of actors and their almost negligible screen time. Swinton, Murray, Garcia Bernal, and John Hurt all appear for no longer than five minutes and basically, one small scene each, but its a testament to Jarmusch’s work (or his calling-in-of-favor prowess) that he can secure great names for nominal screen time (then again Hurt, Robert Mitchum, Crispin Glover, Billy Bob Thornton and Michael Wincott all appeared in “Dead Man” for equally tiny moments). The only recurrent character is the (imagined?) mostly naked, sexual temptress Paz de la Huerta, who tries to sway the ascetic and loner protagonist from his mysterious goals (which may or may not be a riddle unto even himself).
Minimalist, as much as it’s rich in intent, Bankole’s cool and serene performance fits in nicely with the slowburn flames-on-paper vibe that is the film’s somnambulist pace.
The “Limits of Control” could be as much about the spinning ecstasy of shifting molecules as it could be about a hit man’s task at hand. Yes, it’s cliche to bring up the blur where reality begins and ends, but much of ‘Control’ essentially asks the viewer to live in the in-between phase, in an almost Buddhist philosophy of welcoming fear and holding hands with loss.
The isochronous milieu is simply walks in the tradition of European filmmakers from the ’50s and ’60s (they’re called arty now, but back then they were just accepted and appreciated forms of storytelling) much more so than a linear experience and if you can’t hang with its polysemic and wandering nature, this film probably won’t be for you.
There’s probably going to be a faction of critics (and audiences) who will find the picture to be a ponderous fart in the wind, and an exhausting cyclical tempo, but it’s really their loss. ‘Control’ might not be the masterpiece that is “Dead Man,” but it’s still another unique vision in Jarmusch’s iconoclastic oeuvre. [B+]
“The Limits of Control” comes out this weekend (May 1) in limited release.
