Cool, handsome, self-assured... but, as the existentialists might say, what's the bloody point?

A work of dazzling formal discipline that riffs on the simple notion of repetition and variation.

It's bold, confrontational cinema that will, as its author intended, have you questioning at every turn just what it is you expect from a modern movie, and more importantly, why.

Only Jarmusch can get away with pretentious movie about art like this. Less hypnotic than Dead Man but infinitely more interesting than anything else he's done since, Limits of Control is more of an exercise in Jarmusch-ism.