Excerpt: The Limits of Control is a film to separate those who truly love Jim Jarmusch from those who casually admire the director. In many ways, it is quintessential Jarmusch: it's yet another story about a quiet male character on a personal journey, it focuses as much on places and tone as on story (if not more), there are gentle conversations occasionally laced with dry wit, and long, wordless, free-flowing interludes are all underscored by slightly dreamlike, equally...
Excerpt: The word “amongst” derives from the Old English word “ gemong ,” which means “crowd.” So, when the Lone Man declares, “I am amongst no one,” he is stating that he is literally apart from the crowd, though much of his time is spent wandering the streets and cafés of Madrid, Sevilla, and Almería, watching out for the clues they hold: a guitar, a violin, a familiar book of matches.
Excerpt: “The Way of the Samurai,” it is said, “is one of immediacy, and it is best to dash in headlong.” So, let me state at the outset: The Limits of Control is a bad-ass film, probably the most overtly and self-consciously bad-ass film Jim Jarmusch has made.
Excerpt: Jim Jarmusch is er met 'The limits of control' in geslaagd een film te maken die de kijker volledig aan diens eigen fantasie overlevert. Deze thriller, die geen thriller is, wekt diepe bewondering of grondige haat. Onduidelijk is hoe de Lone Man (Isaach de Bankolé) heet, waar hij woont of wat hij precies doet, maar hij is constant onderweg. Zijn gedrag maakt hem spion of huurmoordenaar.