In the months leading up to The Limits of Control’s opening, much has been made in the music press of its soundtrack selections from avant-metal artists such as Boris, Earth and Sunn O))). This does provide some fantastic scorched earth ambience throughout the film, but it’s merely one subtle element of many in this sharply focused, astonishing film, and the icing never overwhelms the cake.
Much like the soundtrack’s slowly shifting doom-and-gloom guitar textures, director Jim Jarmusch has used the typical tools of the trade to flip a genre on its head, crafting an action film largely devoid of action. Following a hired gun only referred to as “the lone man” (Isaach De Bankolé) through several weeks of his mysterious mission, viewers are treated to meditative moments in glacially paced real time, such as travelling on trains, lying in bed and practising what appears to be Tai Chi. Tipping his cap to those paying attention, Jarmusch slyly reveals his film’s modus operandi in one scene stating the protagonist’s rules while on the job: no guns, no cellphones, no sex.
The Limits of Control is built on a foundation of repetition, with interaction after interaction between the lone man and other characters providing brief but memorable cameos (including Tilda Swinton, Gael Garcia Bernal, John Hurt and Bill Murray). Every one of these conversations involves a twist on the same set of phrases and similar existential quandaries, each focusing on different worldly pursuits such as music, visual art and science. Swinton’s scene in particular provides a smashing and hilarious meta-movie moment, as her character states, “the best films are the ones that seem like dreams.”
Indeed, Limits is eerily ethereal, and by healthily dipping into full-blown surrealism, often feels like a two-hour escape from reality. From its stunning cinematography of settings in Spain to recurring yet never fully explained nude scenes and further mantra-like repetition of dialogue with both musical and visual representations, it is a cryptic and continually winding labyrinth. Cleverest of all, the key to its unlocking occurs only once — and without emphasis — in the film’s final showdown.
There are signposts here connecting Limits to the rest of Jarmusch’s filmography — the casting choices, pacing and overhead shots of coffee, to name a few — but he’s never made a movie quite like this. Ghost Dog was a more obvious tribute to Jean-Pierre Melville’s 1967 classic Le Samouraï, but with this film, Jarmusch has captured the same minimalist, mysterious mood to create a modern art-house masterpiece of his own.
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