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.
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.