The Limits of Control (2009)

Isaach De Bankole in "The Limits of Control,"
written and directed by Jim Jarmusch.

Elements and details that movie fans can typically depend on to pop up regularly in a Jim Jarmusch film—deadpan comedy, expressive protagonists, colorful supporting characters, atmospheric visuals—are either muted or absent altogether in "The Limits of Control," an empty, surprisingly lifeless would-be crime drama that follows a taciturn, humorless assassin (Isaach De Bankole) and assorted, underworld cronies along a murky mission through Spain.

The nameless main character, with his shady past, odd idiosyncrasies and quiet demeanor (everyone asks if he speaks Spanish; he doesn’t), is a little reminiscent of Forest Whitaker in Jarmusch's "Ghost Dog" (which was inspired by Alain Delon in Jean-Pierre Melville's moody French film noir, "Le Samourai"). Both are better films, and De Bankhole’s wooden performance lacks Whitaker's expressiveness and emotional depth.

There are some mildly amusing recurring quirks—De Bankole insists on drinking double espressos from two separate cups and reads notes from his contacts off small pieces of paper before swallowing them—but after awhile even these repeat gags grow tiresome. De Bankhole was great as the quizzical cabbie driving a young, brave blind girl through Paris during the most powerful chapter in Jarmusch’s “Night on Earth” (1991). Here, he’s not given much to do and basically sleepwalks through the picture.

The supporting cast (including brief turns from John Hurt and Bill Murray) offers little relief. The only time Jarmusch seems on to something thematically is when Tilda Swinton shows up as a mysterious blonde and starts talking about old movies (“Suspicion,” “Lady from Shanghai”) and how little things from the past (like smoking a cigarette) looked better back in those days.

Indeed, while “The Limits of Control” ostensibly takes place in the present, by dismissing ubiquitous gadgets like cell phones and TVs, the movie seems desperate to belong to another time. Unfortunately for Jarmusch the cinephile, name dropping other movies by the likes of Welles and Hitchcock doesn’t help much—unless, of course, you’re looking for something better to watch.