The Limits of Control
Yvette Bíró

An absurd poem or a playful-mocking exercise in big genre film style? The more Jim Jarmusch adapts the overused, customary patterns of an enigmatic thriller, the funnier and (surprisingly) more mesmerizingly beautiful the movie becomes.

At the center, we have a mysterious, lonely professional killer, the incomparable Isaach De Bankolé, whose perfect immobility only ceases in the few moments when he does tai chi exercises, or when we have to follow him through the endless passages going from place to place. The places are those "instructed from above" that he has to find in order to fulfill his unknown mission. But they are the most magnificent streets, hotel interiors, colorful street corners of Spain, from Madrid to Seville, and we never know why, where, or with what imaginable outcome they lead us. However, the elegant, highly-disciplined Loner is unfaltering along his way, sometimes boarding fast trains and arriving at impeccably shining stations, or at shabby abandoned apartments marked with beautiful red flowers (like blood) at the entrance; or half-empty café terraces, ordering his regular two separate cups of espresso. Through his journey, he meets the most bizarre people: naked girls, secret mafiosi or a flamenco dancer-singer.

It is the mandatory law of the genre: we are constantly in the dark – never understanding the funny, repetitive workings of symbolic objects of exchange (matchboxes of green and red) as secret signs of contact, followed by the password: "You don't speak Spanish, right?"; followed by the highbrow jabbering of conversations about science, arts and sex being incompatible with "work"; and after the swallowing of the written messages – we sail silently with the unerringly performing lead, supposedly leaving some victims (dead?) behind him (the two attractive ladies definitely disappear) until, at the end, he succeeds in carrying out the eagerly expected assassination of the chief gangster (with a cord derived from a prestigious guitar)… but obviously with not much ado, in the quietest possible manner.

"Mission accomplished": we may hear the famous, memorably historical announcement (borrowed from George W.). Thus who could deny the wonderfully ironic hint regarding the senseless sense of everything which preceded it, with so much effort, complex calculation, and conceited skill? The questions arise – what for? for whom? for what kind of compensation? – but they are unfathomable; both the mission and its intricate itinerary remain buried forever, which is precisely the "rule of the game."

The big clue in this great, extremely witty movie: everything remains unknown, secretive from the very beginning to the bitter end, covering who knows what kind of (massive) crime. But this is precisely the message: people spy, ensnare, kill for "higher" (or personal?) interest, obviously both deeply corrupted and betrayed until they are able to go on with the play in order to accomplish an obscure command. No matter whether we will ever learn about the goals, motivations, even the true players. And the end is always the end of somebody, the killing of one nameless person, regardless of the magnitude of the enterprise.

If the deadpan is pushed to the extreme, does it mean that it loses its meaning? Indeed, making a parody of a well-known and popular genre with all its clichés could deprive us of the pleasure of excitement and suspense. Would expecting the "bitter end" as usual be different if the details were not left unexplained? What is the role of the frequently appearing helicopter, following or persecuting our hero? It is simply a disquieting, indispensable accessory of the genre. One of the black holes needed for the authentic ambiance. Some critics complain about the missing clarity of the dénouement, but how could they miss the deliberate intention of the director to make fun of all these conspiracies, intricate efforts, indefatigable labors for a piece of (supposedly not too small) loot? Transparency is not at the heart of these matters. The film goes far beyond the "distorting mirror" of the criminal thriller. It is about the humdrum, dark secrecy of mundane mafia practice, small-caliber goals and the overly elaborate realization of a plan. Exaggerated in its proportions? All the requisite pieces piled up? Of course! This creates the most powerful surprise effect throughout.

In this way the "mission accomplished" gains a more general, deeper sense. Far beyond the insolent, brilliant unmasking of the genre schemes, one cannot help but recognize the very frequent social-political practice of everyday swindling and cheating that happens before our very eyes, with the participation of those high-ranking officials, middle-aged civil servants, in their three-piece suits. Breaking the law – using worldwide connections, intertwined with assistance from the police – seems to happen smoothly, naturally. Despite the contrived means of the plot, these are everyday occurrences. On the other hand, there is a genuine side of the "mission accomplished" slogan: the fascinating realization of a game.

Cinematographically, the visual/photographical, rhythmical beauty and refinement of the film is enthralling, thanks to the camerawork of the marvelous Christopher Doyle. We well remember his poetic vein in Wong Kar-wai's In the Mood for Love (among others): the exquisitely picturesque shots, always captivating framing. There is no fragment of street location or interior without a highly original arrangement. Striking camera angles such as the fantastic opening shot, taken from high above in a tight men's-room stall, slowly revealing the tai chi movements of the main character. Sometimes mysterious lighting hides, and will only later clarify, the particular place we are in. Long takes and comfortably lingering camera movements enhance the suspense. Whether we walk in Madrid's Reina Sofia Museum or in the remote desert, the spectacle is splendid, highly composed, always beyond the simply natural.

All the actors, although appearing mostly only once in short scenes, are beloved celebrities, among whom figure some Jarmusch favorites: from De Bankolé, whose unmovable close-ups compete with his characteristic, unmistakable way of walking, to the "bohemian" John Hurt; Tilda Swinton, this time bearing an overly stylized blond wig with a large Western hat and boots; the softly naked Spanish girl revealing her seductive curves, only to leave her transparent plastic raincoat behind as an unquestionably fatal remnant; and Bill Murray (the final victim – and what a familiar profile! – evoking the official "big shot" faces seen so often on TV). A series of startling moments keep us alert, with the extreme variety of the romantic Sevillian background and a no-man's-land environment where a fortress surrounded by armed guards secures the safety of criminals…

Not everything is for the eyes. The savage jazz music of the world-famous Japanese band Boris contributes to our pleasure on a different plane. In opposition to the restrained visual movements, it offers a hot counterpoint, undermining the apparently smooth, geometrically structured development.

The final title whimsically reminds the spectator: No limit, no control! But the experience contradicts the statement: much control and extreme mastery demonstrate the deliberately set-up limits. Maybe the adventurous, unfolding story is sparser – fewer secondary events and characters fill the film than in Ghost Dog (1999) – but with no diminution of originality. Strangely enough, The Limits of Control evokes the earlier, playfully wry tongue and the cheeky charm of Mystery Train (1989), with its freshness and lurking, dry humor.

Yvette Bíró
© FIPRESCI 2010

edited by Adrian Martin

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