The Limits of Control

ATOMIC CAFE Molecules (Kudoh), right, dines with De Bankolé.

For a film that’s as close to self-parody as it would seem possible for Jarmusch to get—this is mainly the self-styled visionary Jarmusch of Dead Man, not the gently comic Jarmusch of Down by Law—The Limits of Control is strangely hypnotic, perhaps because the way it proceeds through an almost Antonionian parade of Spanish landscapes and architecture is stunning to behold. (Maybe cinematographer Chris Doyle is the real auteur.) Certainly, there’s no shortage of reference points to note: The film opens with a Rimbaud quotation, the title comes from William Burroughs, and Jarmusch has cited Point Blank and Jacques Rivette as inspirations, although his use of repetition seems at odds with the improvisatory rhythms of Rivette’s conspiracy plots.

Like Point Blank, the movie concerns a laconic hit man (De Bankolé) who refuses to be deterred from his mission. He orders espressos a certain way, accepts cryptic notes from strangers without names (in the credits, de la Huerta is “Nude” and Kudoh is “Molecules”) and remains defiantly averse to cell phones. Whether this shaggy-dog existentialism adds up to much is difficult to say on first viewing, but anyone tempted to dismiss it as hipster posturing à la Coffee and Cigarettes needs to spend more time experiencing Jarmusch’s formal mastery.

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