PrintMy film education formally began the day I was introduced to Jim Jarmusch. Of course, I’m not the only one who has found the director to be both an inspiration and an influence. Hailed as the last true independent American filmmaker, he is also arguably the most European of American directors: His use of the distinct American landscape as a backdrop for his loose narratives echoes the films of Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut. At a time when MTV was being launched and filmgoers had short attention spans, Jarmusch’s Stranger Than Paradise stood out. Each scene is one long take, allowing for small moments to be captured and the humanity of the characters to be revealed. This deadpan style has influenced the hundreds of independent filmmaker that followed Jarmusch.
For three decades and with films like Stranger Than Paradise, Dead Man and Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai, Jarmusch’s filmmaking has undoubtedly evolved—for better or for worse—without the loss of his unique vision and style.
His two most recent films, 2005’s Broken Flowers and The Limits of Control, which opens in New York on May 1st, retain some Jarmuschian sensibility even though they are also the first movies he has directed under studio supervision. But they also make a clear jump from his previous films, perhaps a result of studio intervention or in an attempt to distance himself from the lofty titles bestowed upon him.
Jarmusch has always been an intelligent director who counts among his influences a wide breadth of musicians, filmmakers, poets, artists, and novelists. The title The Limits of Control, for instance, comes from a William S. Burroughs essay about language, and the film opens with a quote from a poem by Arthur Rimbaud. Throughout the movie, there are conversations about music, film, and science—not to mention the long takes of the main character staring at pieces in the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. Jarmusch’s characters are strangers and loners whose actions often fall outside of the law, and who seem unwilling or unable to take control of their surroundings—the action of the movie unfolds as a matter of fate and not necessarily by choice. Jarmusch’s camera maintains an aloof perspective, rarely going into close-ups. It is this style and these characters that have come to shape the independent cinema of today: Despite the vast differences between Jarmusch and his counterparts like Wes Anderson or Quentin Tarantino, they all employ the same deadpan camera or film segmentation.
Jarmusch’s latest may contain many of his trademark themes and visuals, but the film is far from his best. While the visuals, shot by genius director of photography Christopher Doyle, are perfectly composed and the rhythm of the film is focused and contained, Jarmusch ultimately ventures too much into the surreal and mystical. The Limits of Control follows actor Isaach de Bankolé, a professional of a questionable occupation, traveling through Spain, visiting cafes, meeting strangers to receive various codes, and listening to them talk about various forms of art. The film, like most of his others, can be broken down into various segments that each take place in a different city. Yet compared to his earlier films, the conversations here are neither as humorous nor as interesting. Furthermore, while Jarmusch’s films have always been anti-Hollywood in the sense that they never have much of a narrative nor a definite moral, they still have tend to have resolution—something The Limits of Control lacks. By the end of the film, one has a clear understanding of Jarmusch’s visual tendencies, but no comprehension of a story.
It’s possible that this film is simply another example of Jarmusch staying ahead of the curve and away from Hollywood ideals. While The Limits of Control may be too large of a leap for fans of his more traditional films, when viewed as separate from his previous work, it is easy to see that it has its own merits. As usual, Jarmusch is simply redefining conventions—in this case, the gangster-assassin film. Film audiences usually expect to sympathize with a protagonist, whether he’s good or bad. Here, the audience is given nothing: the “protagonist” does not have a name, and the only insight into his character is his adherence to professional ritualism. As it turns out, he’s an assassin—and like the Tai Chi that he performs every day—The Limits of Control’s main character is simply an element of the forces around him. He does not care why his employers want his target dead. The audience ultimately takes a journey with him, observing and being subject to fate, as he is.
The Limits of Control’s approach and content is vastly different from Jarmusch’s other features. but seen in this light, the film is not necessarily bad. At one point in The Limits of Control, Tilda Swinton’s character says, “Sometimes I like films where the characters just sit there and don’t say anything at all.” Appropriately, that line is followed by Swinton and her companion sitting for several moments without saying a word. Those silent moments are when characters reveal the most about themselves, and it was Jarmusch who first saw their beauty and potential. While the director may continue to progress in his current direction, nothing can tarnish Jarmusch’s older masterpieces and the influence they have had and continue to have on American independent cinema.