Jim Jarmusch disappears so thoroughly into his elliptical style that he's made an impossibly obtuse, arid film.
The Limits of Control (2009)
Tomatometer
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Reviews Counted:91
Fresh:36
Rotten:55
Average Rating:4.9/10
Consensus: A minimalist exercise in not much of anything, The Limits of Control is a tedious viewing experience with little reward.
Australian Theatrical Release:
Jul 23, 2009 Wide
US Box Office: $362,032
Synopsis: In spite of the title, THE LIMITS OF CONTROL constantly reveals the controlling hand of its creator, the indie icon Jim Jarmusch. The film follows Jarmusch regular Isaach de Bankole as he ambles... In spite of the title, THE LIMITS OF CONTROL constantly reveals the controlling hand of its creator, the indie icon Jim Jarmusch. The film follows Jarmusch regular Isaach de Bankole as he ambles through various parts of Spain on an ambiguous criminal mission. Credited as the "Lone Man," de Bankole encounters a series of oddly disguised accomplices and absorbs their one-sided philosophical musings, all the while piecing together the nature of his assignment. This narrative sounds more compelling in summary than it is on screen, but if you are seeing a Jarmusch picture in hopes of a scintillating story, then you are as confused as the characters from his more memorable films. The sole disappointment of this film is that, despite the overwhelming strangeness of the action (or lack thereof), none of the characters display any confusion or uncertainty, as they assuredly assess the events and still find time to practice tai chi and pontificate about music, film, science, and painting. The film is rigorously structured: each encounter invokes a definitive theme that clicks firmly into place by the conclusion. The individual scenes are entirely enjoyable, as a white-blond Tilda Swinton discusses Welles and Hitchcock, and John Hurt rasps about the depiction of Spanish bohemians in art and literature. Despite Jarmusch’s domineering presence, it is the brilliant work of his collaborators, particularly cinematographer Christopher Doyle and editor Jay Rabinowitz, that shimmers in the memory of the viewer after the final shot. Doyle makes every line, curve, and diagonal in his frames vibrate with hints of radiant significance, and his ethereal images of the Almerian landscape often draw our attention from the artificial metaphysical dialogue. Jarmusch fans will be delighted by this perplexing metaphor of a film, which aims to symbolize and summarize the whole of existence through its myriad parts. [More]
Starring: Isaach de Bankolé, Bill Murray, Gael Garcia Bernal, Tilda Swinton
Starring: Isaach de Bankolé, Bill Murray, Gael Garcia Bernal, Tilda Swinton, Youki Kudoh, John Hurt, Alex Descas, Jean-François Stévenin, Luis Tosar, Paz de la Huerta
Director: Jim Jarmusch
Director: Jim Jarmusch
Screenwriter: Hiam Abbass, Jim Jarmusch
Producer: Stacey E. Smith, Gretchen McGowan
Studio: Focus Features
Reviews for The Limits of Control
Jim Jarmsuch has been responsible for many of the dullest hours ever spent at the movies. His new The Limits of Control is no different.
This is an empty, boring sedative by Jim Jarmusch, a writer-director with not enough talent to be either.
For those who prefer substance over style, The Limits of Control has little to offer beyond the tedium of a half-baked storyline with undeveloped characters.
The Limits of Control is a shaggy dog story, but it’s leaner and less precious (and more beautiful) than the past few Jarmusch films.
...seems like a purposefully opaque version of a shaggy dog story, in which the joke is on the listener, for sitting through the telling.
For all its cinematic references, [the movie] seems impatient with the need to tell a narrative at all, as if its secret wish were to be a photography exhibit, or an album of half-connected songs.
Christopher Doyle’s fine cinematography can’t compensate for a lack of narrative acuity.
Folly of the most pretentious order, The Limits of Control is a meaningless stylistic immersion from the typically on-point and perceptive Jim Jarmusch.
Watching "The Limits of Control" is like looking at an art instillation that dares you to lower your expectations to its level. The game is fixed.
Unfortunately, the whole seldom adds up to the sum of its illustrious parts, and Jarmusch's trademark deadpan quirks seem to have gotten lost in the translation.
It just feels tired and recycled -- the referencing of Rimbaud and Blake, the flagrant hipsterism that here falsifies rather than refreshes...the above-it-all attitude toward connecting on a human level.
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February 26, 2008:
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