So it's no surprise to find that the pioneer indie filmmaker's take on the international thriller - and that's what The Limits of Control is - isn't exactly teeming with elaborate action sequences and grand confrontations.
Almost absurdly quiet and observant, The Limits of Control is about the space between the action, the steps along the way. Set in Spain and starring the mesmerizing Isaach De Bankolé (the Parisian cabbie in Night on Earth, and also the exiled African prime minister on this season's nothing-but-action 24), Jarmusch's movie essentially follows its unnamed protagonist as he moves into town, goes to a cafe, orders two single espressos (not a double), and, well, waits. Eventually someone meanders by, sits at his table, asks if he speaks Spanish (he says he doesn't), and then slips him a matchbox containing a piece of paper written in code.
The someones he meets along the way - in Madrid, in Seville, in the parched Spanish countryside - include Tilda Swinton, blond-wigged and talking Hitchcock; John Hurt, sporting a guitar case and a worried mien; and Gael García Bernal, acting tough and driving a truck.
De Bankolé's character drops in on a club to watch (and listen to) a flamenco dance, and has several encounters with a raven-haired mystery girl (Paz de la Huerta) in high heels, a see-through raincoat, and nothing else. This woman is, depending on your view, a kind of film-noir muse or a parody of a femme fatale. (Or both.)
In fact, for the impatient viewer, Jarmusch's pulpy, poetic exercise will probably feel hopelessly, unintentionally parodic, prompting disdain and derision. Consider yourself warned - not everyone's going to go for this business. But I did. The Limits of Control is an odyssey where small moments loom large, and where the simplest of pleasures take on, if not a deeper significance, a more mindful one.
