The Limits of Control
(Revolver Entertainment/ 15)
In UK cinemas from 11 Dec

On its release in the US earlier in the year, eternal hipster Jim Jarmusch's latest film was hailed as a small triumph and "the best film he's made in a decade". All I can say is that maybe I missed something. It's a little unnerving sitting down to write a damning review of a film that I just didn't like, whilst feeling faintly concerned that in the eyes of the wider public that's going to mark me out as a cinematic oaf with no depth who would clearly only be entertained by the kind of action films which feature numerous scenes of people running away quickly from burning cars that are about to explode.

Well, you're going to have to take my word for it that this couldn't be further from the truth, but I was so, so disappointed by this film.
As a longtime fan of Jim Jarmusch's movies perhaps my expectations were a little too high, but it seems I'm not alone: one critic has already dubbed this film "the Limits of Patience" – which is exactly how it made me feel.

Let's begin at the beginning: something that the The Limits of Control may or may not have done. It's a slow, ponderous film with no real plot to speak of. A character that we know only as "Lone Man" (played perfectly by Jarmusch regular Isaach De Bankole ) traverses Spain on a covert and clearly illegal mission. Along the way he has brief encounters with a variety of individuals, all of whom give him a matchbox containing a small piece of paper with symbols on it which he reads and then swallows, washing it down with two single espressos in separate cups. The respective individuals then use him as a sounding board to talk about whatever's preoccupying them while he remains silent.

You effectively have to wait until the end for something of significance to actually happen. But that's not my problem with this film: usually I enjoy the strangeness and disorientation of sitting in a cinema watching a movie which allows itself huge swathes of space and silence. I just found the entire thing totally self conscious and way too obvious.

We'd already been granted an encounter with a beautiful woman who happens to be naked, for no apparent reason, then when she gets dressed, she gets dressed in a transparent raincoat. Classic Jarmusch adolescent fantasy stuff? Tick. But it was the Tilda Swinton – dressed as a strange Spanish cowgirl – encounter that summed up the problem with this film for me. She sits silently then announces that "Movies are like dreams you're never really sure you've had. Sometimes my favourite films are the ones where people sit there and don't say anything." Followed by… yep, you guessed it: both characters sitting there not saying anything.

Having said all of that, it's not without its merits: Christopher Doyle's cinematography is utterly stunning. Unsurprising really from the man also responsible for the cinematography in the perfect In the Mood for Love.  And because of the film's structure – or lack of it – we're given much more space and time that usual to take in some of the world's most beautiful scenery. And some of the encounters are certainly intriguing – John Hurt's eccentric bohemian turn stands out as does Gael Garcia Bernal and his bartering to get his hands on a rare guitar – it's just a shame that I'd ceased to care by then.
Suzy Prince