For the casual film viewer, resolution is essential to the narrative. Its what is most desired in a film, the knowing that you are on a journey with the characters to a conclusion. The range of genres in this medium are all dangerously tethered to this idea, that you must start from A and get to B, and that B must be a clear enough road that it makes sense when you get there. I say “dangerously” because it is dangerous; the idea that there must be a mold for film making leaves nothing to the imagination after a point. We begin to see the same movie made, time and again. This is because of something I fear is true; the casual movie-goer does not want to part with money to be challenged, but simply entertained.
“The Limits of Control” is a film that aims to present that challenge, rather than the entertainment. In it we are presented with a man who is never named. He has a face that has been washed clean of emotional reaction, and eyes that stare at everything from the city streets of Spain, the ceilings in his hotels and trains, and the strangers he comes into contact with. He is not a mute, but a carefully spoken assassin, a man that is on a task that is never described, never detailed, and never made the focus.
This plays itself out like the bits between the action scenes in a classic film noir; we aren’t shown daring chases, love affairs, or the tension caused by gunfire. All of these moments are presented to the viewer, hinted at but never dissected: a blonde woman is whisked away, a former contact of our protagonist, but he never gives chase; a parody of the classic “femme fatale” – a bespectacled beauty in high heels and nothing else – is ever-present and never touched; a revolver is seen, pointed, and removed from play.
While it may not seem it, the film is a thriller, albeit one without these standard (if not derivative) tools often utilized by film-makers. They are not essential to the narrative, one that keeps it pace slow and steady, never rushed or racing to a finale that many viewers will crave or feel must be imminent before the film reaches its halfway point. They would mangle the cool, the mystique, the surreal. They would distract from the sights, the sounds, and the feelings of the main character’s journey, the things he is taking in, and keep us from taking them in as well.
However, while the main character’s destination is not ultimately the reason behind us taking the journey with him, the film betrays itself, somewhat, by presenting us with that ever-so-longed-for conclusion. Here we have the journeyman meeting with his mark. A long series of matchbox notes, twin espressos, ancient guitars, and longing stares at a beauty swimming in a pool of cool liquid seductiveness leads to a single second, perhaps the films only second, of real action. And then its over. The reason, the why is realized and a sigh of relief can come from those that required it.
While initially bothersome, it struck a chord as to the final reason for the film itself, the why of it all. The target of our protagonist – an important political figure referred to as only The American by way of credits, seen with an American flag pinned to his lapel – is so well protected that our protagonist lets slip a momentary show of concern; he can’t get to the target, the walls are too high and the men surrounding are too well armed. Yet a moment later, there he is, wire in hand, ready to deliver the killing stroke, without a sequence showcasing his bold execution of the perfect infiltration.
“How did you get in here?!” the American exclaims, panicked.
“I used my imagination.” Says the assassin, following the advice given to him by his employer, two hours prior (in viewer time).
And there it is, the reason. The why. Some viewers may not indulge long enough to get to it, lacking patience that is required. They will ask who these characters are, what they are doing, why they are important, why they should watch. What the point of it all is. And it is here that writer/director Jim Jarmusch presents his challenge, both to us as viewers, and to other film makers. To use imagination and penetrate the impenetrable, to examine things differently than we normally might, to take the brave step of not needing to know “why” or “how” but simply be thrilled at the uncanny nature of simple experience. If we can do that, then we our expectations are no longer “controlled” but instead our own again.
The movie begs us to think our way through to understand its narrative, if we so desire, or to simply let the sights and sounds wash over us. It demands our attention if we are to trudge our way through the veritable bevvy of un-named characters and conspiracies, or to let it wander to the simple art of a flamenco dance performance, much like our protagonist. It asks that we risk the comfort of knowing the form and structure of film and instead allow ourselves to indulge in something outside our normal interests.
In the end, it shows us that when our expectations of film is constructed to continually take in regurgitated plot devices, stock character archetypes, and unimaginative cinematography, we are left destitute and without the ability to comprehend a challenge presented to is. If one didn’t use their imagination, this film would be an affront to their senses. The must think. Or, the opposite is true, and they must let go completely and simply enjoy aesthetics, viewing the film as a slide-show put to elegantly scored music, never searching for a deeper meaning to it all.
This is the challenge. It is done so in an abrasive and overly pedantic fashion, but Jarmusch’s point gets across.
Added January 27, 2017
I should watch this again. But, then again, it is so dense that I don’t know if I could willingly dive back in.
Having said this, this review is solid and I stand by it to this day.
Added August 30, 2017
Fixed the title formatting to match the standard for all my ‘A “Review”‘ style posts. Added appropriate tags.
skylerbartels 