Saturday Night At The Movies


Maladies of Spain: New Jarmusch and vintage Frears

By Dennis Hartley















The LBJ look: Bill Murray in "The Limits of Control"


Any devotee of director Jim Jarmusch will tell you that when you watch one of his films, there are certain things you can expect. Or maybe it’s more about the things that you don’t expect. Like car chases. Special effects. Flash-cut editing. Snappy dialog. A pulse-pounding music soundtrack. Narrative structure. Pacing. Not that there is anything wrong with utilizing any or all of the above in order to entertain an audience, but if those are the kinds of things you primarily look for when you go to the movies, it would behoove you to steer clear of anything on the marquee labeled “A film by Jim Jarmusch”. And you will find none of the above and even less in his latest offering, The Limits of Control.

Jarmusch has decided to take another stab at the “existential hit man” genre (which he first explored in Ghost Dog - The Way of the Samurai); and here he has concocted something best described as The Day of the Jackal meets Black Orpheus. Isaach De Bankole is a killer-for-hire (referred to in the credits simply as Lone Man), who at first glance appears to mostly kill time. After receiving his cryptic assignment at an airport, he sets off via train, plane and automobile through the Spanish countryside, with a stop in Madrid (reinforcing my hunch that the film is, among other things, homage to Mr. Arkadin). Along the way, the taciturn Lone Man meets up in appointed locations with an assortment of oddballs, with whom he trades matchboxes (don’t ask). Each of these exchanges is really a setup for a cameo-length monologue about Art, Love, Life, the Universe and Everything by guest stars like John Hurt, Tilda Swinton and Gael Garcia Bernal (whose characters sport archetypal names like Guitar, Blonde and, um, Mexican). As each contact pontificates on a pet topic, De Bankole sits impassively, sipping a double espresso, which he always demands to be served in two cups (the film’s running joke).

The coffee quirk is the least of Lone Man’s OCD-type eccentricities. When he is on a “job”, he suffers absolutely no distractions-including sleep. He doesn’t seem to require much sustenance either, aside from the double espressos. He can’t even be bothered to take up an offer for recreational sex with Paz De La Huerta (what is he, NUTS?!) who, true to her character’s name (Nude) spends all of her screen time wearing little more than a pair of glasses (I hereby nominate the Costume Designer for an Honorary Oscar. Woof!)

The Big Mystery, of course, is Who’s Gonna Die, and Why-but we are not let in on that little secret until the end (in other words, don’t expect any exposition vis a vis Coppola’s over-the-shoulder peek at Captain Willard’s perusal of Colonel Kurtz’s dossier in Apocalypse Now). OK, you’re thinking at this point, we don’t know who he is chasing, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone chasing him, so where’s the dramatic tension?

Well, dramatic tension or traditional narrative devices have never been a driving force in any of Jarmusch’s films (as I pre-qualified at the outset). It’s always about the characters, and Jarmusch’s wry, deadpan observances about the human comedy. In Jarmusch’s universe, the story doesn’t happen to the people, the people happen upon the story; and depending on how receptive you are to that concept on that particular day, you’re either going to hail it as a work of genius or dismiss it as an interminable, pointless snooze fest.

As it so happened, I was in a pretty receptive mood that day, and I found a lot of things to like about The Limits of Control. In purely cinematic terms, I think it’s one of his best films to date. Cinematographer Christopher Doyle makes the most out of the inherently photogenic Spanish locales and deftly instills highly atmospheric flourishes throughout, giving the film an “acid noir” feel. Jarmusch has put together a great (and typically eclectic) soundtrack, from flamenco (required!) ambient (Boris, Earth) and psychedelic (LCD Soundsystem, The Black Angels) to jazz and Shubert. I think I’ve even figured out what the film is “about”. Or maybe Jarmusch is fucking with me. For the eleventh time.
















I love the 80s: Terence Stamp, John Hurt and Tim Roth in "The Hit"



As the credits were rolling for The Limits of Control, and I was digesting what I had just experienced, something was nagging at me. There was yet another film that it reminded me of (in addition to the ones I have already noted), and in a fairly major way, but I couldn’t quite place it. As I was racking my brain, I thought “Now, there can’t be THAT many other existential hit man films, filmed in Spain, which also feature….John Hurt! That’s it! It was so obvious that I wasn’t able to see it right away. One of my favorite Brit-noirs ever, The Hit, is an existential hit man movie, filmed in Spain and features John Hurt. From now on, it’s Six Degrees of John Hurt for me. Move over, Kevin Bacon.

Directed by Stephen Frears and written by Peter Prince, this 1984 sleeper marked a comeback of sorts for Terence Stamp, who stars as Willie Parker, a London hood who has “grassed” on his mob cohorts in exchange for immunity. As he is led out of the courtroom following his damning testimony, he is treated to a gruff, spontaneous a cappella rendition of “We’ll Meet Again” (which has never sounded so menacing, especially when it is sung by a group of Cockney thugs who look like they were on loan from the cast of The Long Good Friday). The oddly serene Willie doesn’t appear fazed.

Flash-forward a number of years, and we learn that Willie has relocated to Spain, where he leads a somewhat comfortable existence (although his ever-present bodyguard would seem to be an indicator that he probably still sleeps with one eye open). When the other shoe finally drops “one sunny day”, and Willie is abducted by freelancing locals and delivered to a veteran hit man (John Hurt) and his hotheaded young “apprentice” (Tim Roth), he accepts his situation with a Zen-like calm (much to the chagrin of his captors).

What exactly is going on in Willie’s head? That’s what drives most of the ensuing narrative. As they motor through the scenic Spanish countryside (toward France, where Willie’s former boss awaits for a “reunion”) the trio engages in ever-escalating mind games, taking the story to unexpected places. The dynamic gets even more interesting when circumstances lead to taking on an additional hostage (Laura del Sol). Hurt is sheer perfection as his character’s icy detachment slowly unravels into blackly comic exasperation. Roth (in his film debut) is edgy, explosive and sometimes quite funny.

This is ostensibly a grim drama, by the way, and not a “ha-ha” comedy; but there are black comedy undercurrents that become more apparent upon subsequent viewings. There’s a fiery score by flamenco guitarist Paco de Lucia (Eric Clapton plays the opening). Well worth rediscovery, especially since it has (finally!) been given the deluxe Criterion treatment (the previous DVD was a dismally mastered pan and scan version).

Previous posts with related themes:

An Appreciation of Jim Jarmusch

In Bruges

No Country for Old Men



… And one more thing

I want to take this opportunity to thank all the readers (you know who you are!) who generously took time to lobby on our behalf to the powers-that-be at the Seattle International Film Festival for recognition of Digby’s sizeable audience, and to reconsider accreditation for yours truly. I was floored by the overwhelming response. Our approach was never intended to be adversarial, and I was particularly delighted that the majority of readers who weighed in picked up on that. (Never underestimate the power of nice). Nor was this lost on the SIFF staffers who I have since spoken with; I could tell that they were genuinely impressed by the passion and eloquence in your missives.

Now, it’s time for me to STFU and go watch some movies, because you’re the boss and I better look busy…