Pretty, vacant

If there were a class called Making Boring and Pretentious Films 101, Jim Jarmusch would surely be its teacher. And his newest film, The Limits of Control, would be the first item assigned for viewing.

Watching this film is like doing homework but with none of the payoff. You can slog through it, sure, but don’t expect entertainment or enlightenment. Limits finds the director exploring all of his worst instincts, creating a cipher so meaningless and dreadfully dull that it leaves the viewer asking only one question: When will this shit end?

The answer: 116 minutes after it (unfortunately) begins.

It’s not that the godfather of modern independent cinema has never made a good film—Ghost Dog is mesmerizing—it’s just that so much of his oeuvre is quiet contemplation just for the sake of quiet contemplation, and “coolness” just for the sake of “coolness.” The Limits of Control is the perfect case study in what not to do with independent film.

The movie follows the travels of a “Lone Man,” played by the chisel-faced Isaach De Bankolé, as he moves through Spain, occasionally stopping to gather cryptic messages from an ensemble cast of characters.

Most of the very limited dialogue is repeated ad naseum and seems to be some sort of code, with other occasional nonsense spilling out as well. (One of the repeated lines: “You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” “No.”)

Codes, in fact, make up the entirety of the film’s interest. Everyone wears sunglasses. The Lone Man only orders espresso: two shots, two cups. Little pieces of paper covered in symbols give him instructions. He goes to the art museum every once in awhile. What any of this means is a permanent mystery that, ultimately, we don’t even care to figure out.

Eventually the Lone Man kills Bill Murray after sneaking onto a compound with a heavily armed security force, then travels back to where he begins, and the movie ends. This sort of clues us into the fact that he was a secret agent or hitman or something, but still, we’re not really sure.

The plot functions only as a slight propellant in the film; if the Lone Man didn’t have to meet all these random people—Tilda Swinton and Gael García Bernal among them—then he wouldn’t have to move. As it is, most of this film contains sustained shots of the Lone Man sitting and thinking to himself. How engaging.

There are two elements of The Limits of Control that save it from complete worthlessness. The first is Christopher Doyle’s cinematography. The long-time ally of Gus Van Sant again shows off his masterful control of the lens, displaying Spain’s famous architecture, scenic landscapes and the beautiful characters that inhabit them in breathtaking fashion.

The soundtrack by Japanese drone metallers Boris also works well. The buzzy swells of guitar feedback and drawn-out melodies fit Jarmusch’s pacing exactly. It’s a shame their music wasn’t utilized in a better movie.

But both these examples illustrate the main problem with Jarmusch’s work: He has really great taste and a finger on what is cool—but that’s all he has. There’s no storytelling or filmmaking prowess on display; it’s just empty.