There are several related answers to that question, the first being the existence of Jarmusch’s brilliant Dead Man, a conceptually similar film that revises the Western instead of deconstructing crime fiction. In both cases, Jarmusch’s denial of two-fisted storytelling makes an outlaw’s journey turn relentlessly inward, and the film evolves into a philosophical reverie across an unfamiliar and often wondrous place. The crucial difference between the two is that Depp’s character is immediately engaging and accessible, one in a long tradition of Jarmuschian fish-out-of-water heroes dating back to John Lurie in Stranger Than Paradise. De Bankolé plays it much too close to the vest.
Repetition is another feature of Jarmusch’s work, and The Limits Of Control gets much of its structure from De Bankolé’s curious rituals and brief encounters, which always begin with the words, “¿Usted no habla Español, verdad?” De Bankolé’s stoic face gives little away, so we know him through a set of behaviors (his standard order of two espressos in separate cups, his meditative exercises, his receipt of cryptic notes via matchbox) and his meetings with more colorful figures (played in one-off turns by Gael García Bernal, Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, and Bill Murray, among others). The film manages a handful of transcendent moments, like a startlingly dramatic flamenco dance and a vibrant scan of the countryside through a train window, courtesy of the great cinematographer Christopher Doyle. But too much of The Limits Of Control feels canned and airless, so stifled by Jarmusch’s obsessions that it loses all sense of surprise.
