The Limits of Control (Jim Jarmusch, 2008)

Jarmusch has to really watch his step here; he's created a a slice of metaphysics that is in danger of losing even his most laconically-minded audience. The monosyllabism and visual/audial space in this supposed thriller get to be hard work; it's as if he'd finally decided to eat up his less gifted but more singular mate Kaurismäki's template of people staring at cityscapes and having one-word exchanges and use it as an unnecessary filter through which to force Melville's Le Samourai. Or even just his last taciturn quasi-philosophical hitman outing, Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai.
Isaach De Bankolé, one of Jarmusch's stalwarts, walks an awful lot through Spanish cities, in various tastefully shiny suits, meeting big-name cameo mission contacts who all deliver a pseud-philosophy speech before exchanging matchboxes with him. He, in turn, never utters a sentence of more than five words. This should be unbearable pomposity. But Christopher Doyle's luminescent photography, and a soundtrack which is both grating and plangent, without contradiction between the two elements, still manage a hypnotic whole.
Conclusion: Jarmusch is at a loose end right now, but at least he never insults your intelligence. A hard-nosed concept editor will be needed next time, though.

6/10