Limits Of Control

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It starts out promisingly enough, however: An unnamed serious man meets another unnamed serious man in an airport where they talk cryptically by way of an interpreter. What can be deciphered is our ‘hero’ -we’ll call him Lone Man (De Bankolé) - is being sent on a mission to Spain (we’re left to assume it’s a hit of some kind). So our monosyllabic Lone Man takes off to Spain with instructions to wait at a café for more instructions. Those instructions arrive courtesy of Luis Tosar’s violinist; Tosar sits with Lone Man, they speak cryptically, and swap matchboxes - in which are codes for Lone Man’s next meet. It’s all very secretive and intriguing. Jarmusch keeps interest levels high with the audience expecting to learn more about the Lone Man and the mission. And why a naked Spanish woman (Paz De La Huerta) keeps turning up in his hotel room.

We never find out. The Limits Of Control begins to repeat itself: Lone Man wanders the streets, sits in a café, someone says something cryptic, they swap matchboxes, go their separate ways and he returns to the naked woman in his room. This happens again. And again. And again. These ‘contacts’ are made up of Swinton, Hurt, Youki Kudoh and Gael Garcia Bernal. None of which have anything interesting to say. Or do. This film wins the award for the most monotonous movie in recent memory with style, tone and pace teaming up to make sure the viewer doesn’t care.

Jarmusch, to his credit, is attempting something different with the given sub genre. The Limits Of Control exists on the fringes of a mainstream hitman movie as the director burrows under the obvious - action, personality, humour - to something else. That something else is boredom. Attempts to decipher what it’s all about would mean going back and re-watching old thrillers. Swinton’s actress drops a few hints: "Have you see The Lady From Shanghai? That makes no sense." Neither does this.