The Limits of Control (2009)

Calificación de los usuarios:

6.7/10   

Director:

Jim Jarmusch

Guionista:

Jim Jarmusch (written by)

Fecha de Lanzamiento:

21 mayo 2009 (Israel)

Género:

Crimen | Drama | Suspenso

Frase comercial:

For every way in, there is another way out.

Plot:

The story of a mysterious loner, a stranger in the process of completing a criminal job. |

Comentarios de los usuarios:

Not the worst movie ever. By one.

US Showtimes:

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Reparto

Isaach De Bankolé	...	Lone Man
Alex Descas	...	Creole
Jean-François Stévenin	...	French
Óscar Jaenada	...	Waiter
Luis Tosar	...	Violin
Paz de la Huerta	...	Nude
Tilda Swinton	...	Blonde
Youki Kudoh	...	Molecules
John Hurt	...	Guitar
Gael García Bernal	...	Mexican
Hiam Abbass	...	Driver
Bill Murray	...	American
Héctor Colomé	...	Second American
María Isasi	...	Flamenco Club Waitress
Norma Yessenia Paladines	...	Flight Attendant

MPAA:

Rated R for graphic nudity and some language.

Duración:

USA:116 min

País:

Spain | USA | Japan

Idioma:

Inglés | Español | Hebreo | Francés | Japonés

Color:

Color

Sonido:

Dolby Digital | DTS

Clasificación:

USA:R | Canada:13+ (Quebec) | Canada:14A (Manitoba/Ontario) | Canada:PG (British Columbia) | New Zealand:M

Locaciones de Filmación:

Almería, Andalucía, Spain

Compañía:

Entertainment Farm (EF)

Trivialidades:

When Tilda Swinton talks about a swooping bird in a room full of sand she is referring to a scene in the Andrei Tarkovsky film Stalker (1979).

Errores:

Personal o Equipo Visible: When the Lone Man has passed the last picture in the museum during his first visit, the camera can be seen slightly reflected in the glass of the picture frame.

Citas:

Blonde: The best films are like dreams you're never really sure you had.

Conexiones de Película:

References La vie de bohème (1992)

Not the worst movie ever. By one.

I've seen a worse movie than Limits of Control. The Singing Forest was worse. But very, very few people will ever encounter that schlock.

Many more will force themselves masochistically to endure nearly two hours of Limits of Control. After all, it has Tilda Swinton, Bill Murray, and is directed by a famous director.

Yet nothing happens in LoC. Unless you consider eight presentations of the same boring riff "something." Well, here's the riff: Conspicuously over-dressed man spends day wearing a suit, practicing Qigong, staring at a single painting in a museum, and sitting in front of two espressos, while a black helicopter flies in the distance.

Then a stranger approaches, attempts to engage him in an one-sided philosophical conversation to which he says nothing, and they swap matchboxes. His matchbox will contain a small piece of paper with two or three lines written in a cipher, which he eats. He will spend the rest of his day in silence, resisting entertainment, conversation, and sex.

If that sounds exciting, let me assure you that it's not, at least not after the third repetition, and certainly not by the time the final credits free us from this torture.

There is no payoff. There is no plot. There is no purpose. There is no plausibility. The cinematography is beautiful, but forced and self-conscious. Limits of Control is to film what Cage's 4'3" was to music.

Half of the critics are busy brainwashing themselves to not believe what they know is true: the Emperor has no clothes, folks. And no movie, either.