Jim Jarmusch edges about as close as he’ll come to a thriller with the enigmatic The Limits of Control; a thriller only in that it tracks an anonymous, jet-setting hitman (Isaach De Bankolé) — those seeking Bourne-borrowing book-punching: prepare to be perplexed. Simulacra-stuffed and deliberately bewildering, Limits sees De Bankolé’s taciturn assassin in Spain on a clandestine assignment collecting matchboxed instructions from a string of informants (a strikingly alabaster Tilda Swinton and habitually nude Paz de la Huerta among them) as he inches his way — slowly, silently, surely — towards... well, we don’t know what. At two hours long and reportedly shot from a screenplay of just twenty-five pages, this is languorous to a point many will no doubt find insufferable, but, floating on a seriously sexy post-rock soundtrack, The Limits of Control hints at a wellspring of substance to be dechipered beneath its remote and exquisitely-lensed surface that will see it latch long to the memory.