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Sometimes two lovers can look at each other endlessly, not saying a word.  Their eyes can do all the talking.  Other times, silence can be pretty frightening.  No matter what the emotion, it is a pretty profound fact: With the absence of conventional dialogue or noise, comes a staggering truth (which is sometimes ugly).

Jim Jarmusch--the truly original figure in the film world ("Stranger Than Paradise," "Ghost Dog: The Way Of The Samauri")--has brought his latest work to audiences with some rooted stakes.  In the week before the release of "The Limits of Control" Jarmusch quietly confessed to NPR during an interview: "Well frankly, I get a little annoyed recently with the pace of a lot of films where no shot is on longer than three seconds."  When you listen to the interview (which you can download here) note the matter of fact tone in Jarmusch's dialogue with the host.  It's as if he made the film for therapeutic reasons.  There is no usual 'Hey I'm the quirky movie director chock-full of cute anecdotes from the set' type rhetoric here that would usually draw the masses to the box office on opening day. And with good reason.

As a sort of antidote to the slew of noisy, thoughtless and hastily-edited films expected to flow into theatres this summer, "Limits" boldly and quietly protests the inane filmmaking technique employed by many Directors today (largely because a majority of them were only lukewarm music video Directors before).  It does so by resting on its images for long stretches of time and by actually observing most of its characters.  Hardly any dialogue is spoken.  Even more, some of the dialogue is identical in some scenes.  Yet the film moves forward, in a quiet quest.  Funny, I was watching a retrospective documentary the other day on the making of "Kramer vs. Kramer," and Meryl Streep achingly reminisced, "You see in the 70s, [audiences] were actually interested in behavior."

On paper, the plot for "Limits" is concise: A hired hitman (Isaach De Bankolé) walks around parts of Spain, awaiting further instructions at various cafes from equally intriguing characters and contacts. By the end of the film, he unbelievably infiltrates a fortress and kills his target.  Then he leaves our lives.

How and why Jarmusch stretches this for two hours is for you to decide--and hopefully enjoy on some level.  For me, overall, I was affected in the same way as when I see a familiar piece of art in a gallery but it's been tweaked in a strange, elusive way.  Or more plainly, like going to see a band in a concert and they don't sing the songs exactly like they sound on the record.  You might hate it but sometimes you'll discover new life in sections of the songs you never knew existed.  It's kinda like that.

And as with every Jarmusch film, there are some standout scenes where I can see Film Editor Scott Tobias from the A.V. Club in the future mentioning them in his series 'The New Cult Canon.'  One such scene comes about halfway through the picture when De Bankole walks into a late bar and observes a stirring and verbally forceful flameno dance.  Plus there is the impressive roster of standout character actors from Gael Garcia Bernal to John Hurt.

Still, for all of its restraint, the film is quite forceful in two specific areas: It's sound design and its poetic cinematography.  If you listen near the end of that NPR interview, you'll note the interviewer say to Jarmusch that upon leaving the theatre, all outside street noise felt amplified to him.  He was more aware of his environment in a startling way.  Everything from the stirring of an espresso drink to the deep breaths taken in from our protagonist are given equal attention on the film's soundtrack.  It's quite unusual.

Christopher Doyle continues great work on his cinematography filmography (especially after photographing Gus Van Sant's divine "Paranoid Park" in 2007) with "Limits" and whatever measurable success the film wins with audiences owes a great deal to Doyle's palette.  Whether it's the naked figure of a seductress or the bathroom of an airport, each frame iridescently bleeds with a quixotic attraction.

It's been about a month now since first seeing the film and I write late of it because I couldn't articulate what or even how I was able to be moved by the film.  Not so much emotionally but more on the level of art appreciation.  Just when I think I have it all figured out, an auteur like Jarmusch comes along and fucks my world up.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.