ADDED TO 'GREATEST FAVORITES': The Exorcist (1973)

Directed by William Friedkin

The mystical sound of the Adhan (a traditional Muslim prayer chant) opens The Exorcist from the very second the title is displayed on screen. It makes sense to hear this. After all, as the film begins, we are fading into the scorching sun and arid landscapes of Iraq, and perhaps this was Friedkin’s sole intent, but I can’t help sense a tone of dread in this chanting. It sounds more like a call to arms, not in the spirit of a Jihad, but to announce the presence of a very true evil among us. No matter what one’s faith, if present at all, one that everybody can agree that said evil must be stopped at all costs.

It is a call to arms that is, perhaps, first heard by Father Merrin (the great Max von Sydow). He is in Iraq on an excavation mission, where he is seemingly followed by the image of Pazuzu, and all of its unsettling inertia. Before we know it, we are in Georgetown with Chris (Ellen Burstyn) and her pre-teen daughter, Regan (Linda Blair). Regan seems typical for her age, sweet yet childishly mischievous. But her deviant antics become not only more frequent, but more outlandish, vulgar, and violent. Chris does everything to get Regan back to her normal self, consulting what seems like every doctor and psychologist in the city. No matter what treatment, though, whatever ailment Regan is undergoing won’t budge. Finally, a group of doctors suggest a last-resort treatment: an exorcism from the Catholic Church.

Enter Damien Karras (Jason Miller) a local Catholic priest, psychologist by trade. He wanders the world around him with indifference, simultaneously aware of his duties as a priest but also of his limitations as a man. By his own admittance, his faith is on its last legs, which are trembling in weakness – this is only made worse by the recent death of his mother. He is contacted by Chris to save her daughter, to which he is hesitant – to him, if somebody wants an exorcism, they’d need to go back in time to the 16^th Century. But interactions with Reagan convince him of demonic evil afoot.

For the longest time, my reaction to The Exorcist has always been disappointingly lukewarm. As the years have gone on, it was a film that I wanted to love, let alone like, more than I actually did. Then I noticed something: all these years, I had been watching the Extended Cut. As I did the research, nearly all my criticisms were to blame on the additions in this cut.

On that note, I would like to get my criticisms of the Extended Cut out of the way. The vast majority of the additional scenes, though interesting to watch for curiosity’s sake, add next to nothing. Friedkin had perhaps a little too much fun with those pop-ups of Pazuzu’s face, and the frequent appearances of such a terrifying image become laughable, with the exception of the appearance during Reagan’s hospital tests (the one scene that I wish would have stayed in the Theatrical Cut). On top of everything else, this particular cut is scarred by an ending that is tonally awkward and completely out of place (why would anybody think it’s a good idea to put an homage of Casablanca in a film like this?).

Very recently, I have decided to watch the original Theatrical Cut. Not only did I save myself 10 minutes, but I was also now able to see just what the hell everybody was talking about. From the slower than slow-burn tension in the first act, to the chaos of the second, capped off by the all-out warfare in the third, the experience of watching The Exorcist can only be described as painful.

I would give anything within reason to go back to 1973, where no filmmaker dared even think about showing what we saw in The Exorcist. To experience the shock of such horrifying deeds for the first time must have been extraordinary and singular for its time. What we see and hear is beyond revolting, but not once does it come off as distasteful or an act of arbitrary shock value (with the arguable exception of the infamous spider-walk, only in the Extended Cut). Rather, it further corners the viewer into a do-or-die confrontation with the devil itself, a concept that is otherwise dismissed as fantasy, which would be the case of The Exorcist if it were a lesser film.

To confront the devil is to face the concept that true evil is not only among us, but a force that cannot be fought on the physical realm of our reality. And in that reality, the modern age where the black and white of old has been shoved to the side by a seemingly infinite amount of grey shades, where technological and scientific advances have an explanation for everything, perhaps pure, inexplicable evil is a force that mankind will never be able to even comprehend. To fight an enemy without being unable to understand it, I think this is perhaps the most terrifying aspect of The Exorcist. No hyperbole; it brings be the greatest sense of relief that this is just a movie.

Friedkin creates a spiritual battlefield out of the world in The Exorcist. Something as miniscule as dogs fighting or two people arguing with each other implies a greater conflict boiling outside Chris and Regan’s home. Not only does this make The Exorcist all the more unsettling, but all the more impressive, considering the vast majority of the action is set within the confines of said house. I’ve noticed the best of horror tends to take place in some kind of enclosed setting, whether it be the Overlook Hotel, the Nostromo, or Outpost 31. Contrary to those films, though, the door to escape in The Exorcist is wide open, but how terrifying that the greater good of humanity depends on confronting the devil, in turn remaining in that house.

It would be a shame if such potential of a film like this were wasted due to incompetent performances, technicality and/or writing. Thank the heavens above that no such incompetence is to be found in The Exorcist. Performances are all exceptional. Burstyn is very believable as the action-oriented but ultimately desperate mother in peril. Blair’s fearless conviction as the possessed Regan is so convincing that one may wonder if there’s some malicious spark within her. Jason Miller beautifully embodies the faith-imperiled priest, coming out as the true star of the film. For Father Merrin, I couldn’t think of a more perfect fit than the great Max von Sydow. Finally, there’s Mercedes McCambridge’s voice work as the demon within Regan, which can only be described as chilling ("In here, with us" is one of the most terrifying lines in movie history). She's exactly what I expect a demon to sound like.

To this very day, the makeup on Blair is terrific, and still remains terrifying even after being shown, referenced, and parodied all over the place, though the makeup job on Sydow also deserves recognition (allegedly, he wears more makeup than Blair for the old-age look). Cinematography takes a mostly static and sometimes documentary-style look. Instead of this making The Exorcist visually boring, it simply makes the whole premise, one that is complete fantasy to most of us, all the more believable.

As far as horror films are concerned, my heart will always lie with The Shining as my favorite, and I don’t think anybody would argue that Kubrick’s masterpiece earns its ranks as a truly remarkable achievement in horror. But in the greater scheme of horror films, The Exorcist very potentially stands as the greatest of the genre. Like what 2001: A Space Odyssey did for science fiction, as well as The Godfather for crime and gangsters, The Exorcist took the horror genre, at the time shrouded in the ranks of B-grade entertainment, and showed what it was truly capable of, tapping into themes of faith and existentialism, good and evil. Of course, this is bolstered by great characters and masterful performances. To top it all off, it’s still scary as hell.

FILM REVIEW: The Dead Don't Die (2019)

Directed by Jim Jarmusch

* * ½

I have no doubt that The Dead Don’t Die will be an enjoyable movie for most, if not all, viewers. What will vary, however, is the level of enjoyment each audience member will get from it. It’s just made its way to theaters across the country, but reviews have popped up here and there from scattered festival screenings. The reviews up to this point have suggested something ultimately unfulfilling but fun while it lasts. As for me? At its worst, it is a marginally irksome mess of overbearing meta-humor and tonal imbalance. At its best, on the other hand; thanks to the usual cool Jarmusch dryness and an exceptional cast, it was indeed a fun ride.

Something strange is going on in small-town midwestern Americana, known here as Centerville. The sun should have been down long ago, but is still up; freshly-charged phones are dropping dead; animals collectively fleeing from their homes; and other such weirdness. It is soon reported that polar fracking has caused a catastrophic effect on the earth, throwing the planet off of its orbital axis. Well, soon enough, the weirdest of anomalies occurs: this strange phenomenon is raising the dead from the graves to feed on the flesh of the living! Now, in the confines of Centerville, it’s free-for-all for survival between the living dead and the many wacky locals, all set to the soundtrack of Sturgill Simpson’s “The Dead Don’t Die”.

Wait, did I say soon enough? Please excuse me, as it actually takes quite a bit of time for things to actually begin happening. To my great surprise, Jim Jarmusch proves to be quite formidable in the art of slow-burn horror. In spite of a chuckle here and there, I found myself legitimately scared of what was boiling around Centerville…while I mean this as a compliment, I also mean this equal part as criticism. The biggest problem in the film is its tonal imbalance. It clearly wants to be horror comedy. Fine by me, but there are tons of really bleak undertones with the fracking & planetary axis subjects that are brought up. Jarmusch seems to be channeling environmental concerns – completely warranted in the greater scheme of things, but they take a lot of the fun out of his new film.

Many reviews have pointed out and criticized the film’s allegedly frequent self-referential jokes. These were not nearly as prevalent as they’re built up to be – most of these are simply winks to the audience that are more subtle than they’re made out to be. However, blatant meta-humor is present, and is distractingly out of place when it happens. It feels more like Jarmusch exercising fan-service because he couldn’t think of anything better.

But The Dead Don’t Die is at least a fun watch while it’s happening, and said fun is all on account of the wonderful cast. The film treats its characters in a Robert Altman-esque fashion (though not as sprawling), so we only get portions of the characters at a time. Unfortunately, for as many idiosyncratic characters present here, there’s not grand-scale coming-together showdown against the hordes of the undead. It’s a missed opportunity. That said, though, each character and performance always manage to bring something to look forward to, despite Steve Buscemi’s character existing exclusively as an arbitrary jab at Trump supporters.

That said, I don’t think anybody would deny that the protagonists are Bill Murray, Adam Driver, and Chloe Sevigny, who make up the town’s entire police department. They make a wonderful team, even if Murray seems suspiciously bored from time to time. Tom Waits is also a pleasure to see as a reclusive mountain man. Who undoubtedly steals the show, though, is Tilda Swinton as the eccentric undertaker, a Scottish woman and expert in Japanese sword-fighting skills. If there is at least one reason to see The Dead Don’t Die, look no further than Swinton.

There’s no doubt in my mind that zombie movie fanatics are going to flock to The Dead Don’t Die, for the gore and monsters at the very least. How are they? Well, they’re fine, I suppose. Nothing particularly special. The makeup on the zombies feels like it’s trying too hard to make memorable-looking zombies; ironically, I doubt people are going to remember the look of the zombies, even though many of their scenes are very funny, the diner scene being particularly memorable in that regard. The gore isn’t too much to write home about either, but it gets the job done. There’s a half-hearted attempt at social commentary with zombies repeating phrases like “…wi-fi…” and “…Bluetooth…”. It all comes off as very cheap.

I’m curious as to what compelled Jarmusch to make The Dead Don’t Die. Though there’s still a market for zombie entertainment, evident in the ever-running series The Walking Dead, but zombie mania wasn’t nearly as big as it was 10 years ago. Perhaps the passing of George A. Romero in 2017 inspired Jarmusch, but I don’t sense enough heartful tribute. No matter; I suppose the best route to take is to accept it for what it is. There were problems throughout the film to warrant a glowingly positive review, but I can’t help but sit here fondly as a recall and write this review. It’s not an exceptionally good film by any means, but it’s still worth it for the dry fun factor.

FILM REVIEW: Paterson (2016)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * * *

When I exchange stories with friends, I have a tendency to throw in the most minimal and, frankly, meaningless details in my monologues. It’s not something I go out of my way to do; it just kind of happens – it’s something like muscle memory at this point. Perhaps it’s some subconscious need to paint as full a picture as possible. After all, the big picture may be what’s important, but that big picture wouldn’t exist if not for the little details. It is this love for those little details that makes Paterson the film that it is, and what Jarmusch has brought us is not only one of his very best films, but one of the best films of the decade.

Paterson follows a week in the life of Paterson (Adam Driver), a bus driver in the city of Paterson (the film acknowledges this irony). It’s not a particularly exciting or pivotal week in his life; just his day-to-day proceeds, whether he’s curiously eavesdropping on the conversations of bus passengers, sharing the excitement of his girlfriend’s (Golshifteh Farahani) passions and hobbies, having a beer at the bar down the block, or relaxing by the waterfall with his lunch. What is unique about Paterson, though, is his seemingly second-nature ability to incorporate every single little detail of his life into his writings – Paterson writes poetry in every spare waking moment of his life.

Laura, his girlfriend, is always encouraging Paterson to publish his poetry, but Paterson simply doesn’t find any need to. Not out of introversion or insecurity, but simply out of a sincere humility. To Paterson, to write poetry is like breathing or drinking water, and Adam Driver’s excellent performance makes it work. Jarmusch has some of the coolest casts in film history, but it wasn’t until this marathon of his work that I’ve begun to appreciate just how strategic he is in his casting choices.

It’s a compliment I’ve made time and time again; every performance in his work, even in his weakest films, is perfectly in tune with the tone and subject matter of the film, and Driver’s Paterson continues this beautiful trend. Without being too dismissive of the rest of Paterson’s cast; everybody else is just fine. Farahani is simply adorable as Paterson’s enthusiastic and passionate girlfriend (rest assured, though; she is no Manic Pixie Dream Girl); Barry Shabaka Henley adds a nice coolness as the bartender of a local pub; William Jackson Harper is equal parts comic and tragic as an incompetent lover, always bringing his relationship issues loudly public. Ultimately, though, this film belongs to Adam Driver.

It’s a thing of beauty watching Paterson utilizing the insignificance of everyday details and putting them in his poetry – it’s almost mesmerizing. I credit this to the exquisite imagery. There’s plenty of the usual Jarmusch wide angles, but what he exercises in Paterson is the perfect amount of light. I don’t think I’ve ever see Jarmusch implement light so much like he has in Paterson. Lots of fluorescent lights shining down, or colorful sunrises and sunsets. It adds to the inspiring effect that writing has, but it never goes overboard and becomes a cliché. He knows exactly when to play it up, when to play it down, and exactly how many notches to adjust.

Paterson just may very well be Jarmusch’s most heartfelt and sincere film to date. While he has never gone embarrassingly out of his way to be “cool”, there are certain ingredients to his movies that always make for that signature Jarmusch coolness, most notably the prominent appearances of underground rock icons and the discussion of music to follow. Though there’s a few conversations about famous poets and such here and there throughout Paterson, they are only gently peppered. It’s a welcome expansion of horizons for Jarmusch’s track record.

Prepare the tissue box as well. It’s not that Paterson is a sad film; it’s simply just one of those films that is just plain powerful, working on the most minimal and human of levels. When I first saw Paterson, I was enjoying what I was watching, but I wasn’t sure I was liking it, per se. Then comes the softest gut-punch you can think of: I dare not spoil events, but all I can say is that Paterson loses a particularly treasured possession. There is no breakdown or even hint of affect from Paterson. You can only read his face and all of its subtle gestures. Additionally; it’s typical for Jarmusch to show his protagonist crossing paths with a totally foreign character who appears to be riding some kind of parallel path. Paterson includes such a scene following Paterson’s loss, and he chats poetry with a Japanese tourist. One of the best lines in modern movies follows: “Sometimes an empty page presents more possibilities.”

I am almost tempted to put this in my Greatest Favorites, but we’re going to hold off for now (it’s only 3 years old at this point). I wouldn’t be surprised if I do, but in the meantime; Paterson is not just a wonderful movie, but a miracle of a film. It is a humble, timeless, and deeply moving celebration of the beauty of mundanity, something perhaps only Jarmusch can accomplish. All of this is further bolstered by what may very well be Adam Driver’s finest hour in his acting career. There’s so much to say, but I can’t quite find the words at this point. All I can really say is “thank you, Mr. Jarmusch.”

FILM REVIEW: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * * ½

Being a reclusive artist must be something like living like a vampire, where the shadows and darkness are not only preferential, but vital. After all, exposure to the light will only bring significant displeasure. I have no doubt that this is what Jim Jarmusch was thinking about when he was working on Only Lovers Left Alive, a story about love, vampires, and rock n’ roll. It’s a collage of ideas that only Jarmusch could not only come up with but execute, and while it’s not a masterpiece by any means, the result is one of his coolest and most charming films to date.

Who knows how long Adam and Eve (Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton, respectively) have been married? It’s ben literal centuries, no doubt: they are vampires. Unfortunately, they now live in totally different parts of the planet; Eve in Tangiers, Adam in Detroit, where he spends his days confined to a shabby home. He is a recording artist, not only a reclusive one, but also widely renowned (perhaps an inseparable combination). He is deeply depressed, currently contemplating suicide by way of gunshot – his errand boy (Anton Yelchin) is hooking him up with a wooden bullet. Worried about his well-being, Eve flies all the way to Detroit to revitalize him, but things take a difficult turn upon the arrival of Ava (Mia Wasikowska), Eve’s younger and extremely impulsive younger sister.

I wonder if Only Lovers Left Alive was made in some sort of response to the joke that vampire movies had become in the wake of the Twilight saga (the final entry to was released one year prior to Jarmusch’s film, after all). It’s something to think about, but it doesn’t really matter for two reasons: 1) Twilight hasn’t been relevant for 7 years, and more importantly 2) Only Lovers Left Alive stands on its own as a truly wonderful movie, a singular and unique take on vampires in the movies.

In his writing, Jarmusch is wonderfully clever in his interpretation of vampires living in the modern era. You can walk into this movie totally blindsided and know that these two characters are vampires without anything really happening and still know exactly what they are, from the way they reminisce about events from decades, if not centuries, ago (keep your ears open for an early exchange about Eddie Cochran) to the way they talk about blood, as if they’re a kind of wine. And there’s plenty of subtle pop-culture and music references to keep you happy without overdoing it. Speaking of blood, Adam and Eve’s favored choices of blood is type O negative (those that get it know exactly what the reference is).

There’s an atmosphere throughout that works on a subtle yet very effective level, setting the stage for a world that cannot possibly understand its two protagonists. The world around them is surrounded by decrepit buildings, shadows of their former selves – to top things off, the entire film is set in the darkness of the nighttime. When indoors, their world is smoky and claustrophobic, the room corners always masked in shadows. It is simultaneously suiting and alienating for the two leads, and creates a bittersweet line between for them to linger in.

This makes way for a sense of tragedy, but that doesn’t make this a remotely morose picture. As a matter of fact, Swinton and Hiddleston’s romance is an absolute joy to behold. Though it is bolstered by the clever writing and alienating atmosphere, this wonderful romance works all on account of the incredible range and abilities of these two great actors, who carry on with a reserved nature that is, on one hand, humble, cool as hell on the other.

I had a wonderful time with this movie, but I admit that it’s not a complete success. There are two sequences involving travelling across multiple countries via airplane, and I have a really difficult time believing these two would have such luck finding international flights without any kind of daytime travel. Yes, there are explanations, but they’re explained in a very hand-wave fashion. It’s a shame, because this is a setup for very interesting (and perhaps even hilarious) moments. Additionally, the entire third act feels very underdeveloped. It moves along just fine with what we’re presented, but I feel like there should have been so much more going on (this is all said without spoiling anything, mind you).

Just a few years ago, to mention vampires in any context would inspire only groans and eyerolls (thanks, Twlight), but now that such a terrible era for vampires has passed, perhaps more people will rediscover the subject matter. In turn, I can only hope that Only Lovers Left Alive will gain the cult audience it truly deserves. It’s just short of being practically perfect, but nonetheless, Only Lovers Left Alive is still a moodily wonderful, adorably romantic, and truly original take on the vampire story.

FILM REVIEW: The Limits of Control (2009)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* *

“Your sick minds have been polluted with crap. Your music, movies, science. Fucking bohemians on hallucinogenic drugs. All that shit has poisoned you. And it has nothing to do with the real world. And I suppose you believe that by eliminating me, you will eliminate control over some fucking artificial reality.”

Bill Murray’s character, a foul-mouthed white-collared bureaucrat of some sort, utters this very sentence in The Limits of Control, and it is here that my own mental switch went from not interested to absolutely fascinated. It’s just too bad that it wasn’t long after that the movie was over, and it was an inexplicable slog to sit through getting this far, albeit being peppered with some redeeming qualities.

The Limits of Control follows the exploits of a character known only as the Lone Man (Isaach De Bankole), who is an enigma of a man, talking only when absolutely necessary, always very calculating and observant of his surroundings. As the film opens, he is being cryptically briefed on something like a job. From this point forward, the Lone Man will frequent a café with very specific coffee order. Occasionally, he will be greeted by a seemingly random passerby, have a brief conversation about the arts, and receive a message transported via a matchbox (which the Lone Man will physically consume after reading the message). Or the Lone Man is in the confines of his hotel room, where he does these meditative stretches of some kind. And then there are his various interactions with a Nude Woman (Paz De La Huerta), though there is nothing particularly sexual in their encounters.

Who is he? Why the specific coffee orders? Why the matchbox messages? Well, I suppose that’s up for us to interpret. Let it be known that I have zero issue with films like this. I love when movies leave blanks in between the lines for the audience to fill in. Still, though, there must be some sort of narrative substance for the audience to work with, but it’s just short in The Limits of Control. Scenes and inexplicable action linger on for moments at a time, only to lead to cryptic conversations that offer absolutely nothing to the greater picture.

While I can be somewhat forgiving of the open form of the film, what I cannot excuse is the lack of noteworthy performances amongst the talent present here, including Tilda Swinton, Gael Garcia Bernal, John Hurt, and Bill Murray among many. It’s not that they’re bad…they just have nothing to work with, as if they were handed pieces of a puzzle with no puzzle to implement the pieces into. Part of me wants to say that Isaach De Bankole offers something, but I think that’s more because we accompany him throughout the entire film.

Also, while this isn’t quite a criticism, as much an indie film as The Limits of Control most definitely is, it felt nothing like a Jarmusch film. His brand of humor and overall filmmaking is completely nonexistent. If the dialogue were more fleshed out and more like dialogue, maybe I could hear Jarmusch in the words of the film. The only thing remotely telling you that this is a Jarmusch film are some of his regulars present here, most notably Bankole and Murray. For anybody wanting to get into Jarmusch, do not start here.

Not that The Limits of Control is without any kind of credibility. The film overall may be a numbing watch, but the cinematography by Christopher Doyle will keep your eyes satisfied. Many beautiful telephoto shots, alongside cityscape vistas that are curiously claustrophobic. Additionally, I found the soundtrack fantastic, filled with neo-psychedelic soundscapes, courtesy of artists like Boris and Bad Rabbit. In short, the film is a feast to the eyes and ears, at the very least.

But that scene with Bill Murray really got me thinking about The Limits of Control, and in a good way. With all of that postmodern nothingness for over an hour and a half to lead to that quote (please see the first paragraph of this review), perhaps Jim Jarmusch has made the ultimate anti-film? A film that dares challenge the idea and supposed value of artistic depths in movies? I admire such audacity. Perhaps one day I will warm up to The Limits of Control. For now, though, as much as I kind of saw what I think the point of it all was, it still has to be somewhat satisfying to get to that point, which it wasn’t.

FILM REVIEW: Broken Flowers (2005)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

~ Greatest Favorite ~

When we are in our youth, we are sometimes encouraged not to worry too much about the future – live in the moment, have fun, enjoy ourselves, the works. Of course, pleasure in any way becomes something we go after time and time again. I sometimes wonder if that chase for pleasure eventually molds into an internal way of covering up a lack of direction or knowledge of what we really want out of life. In the context of this review, I’m not necessarily referring to people who forgot to prepare for life, but people who had that a particular frivolity or vice that didn’t dominate their lives, but spent just a hair too much involvement in. Some years, or even decades, later, a period of time in that individual’s headspace puts them in the train tracks of thought, with a freight train of realization headed straight for them – “What have I been doing this whole time?” I think that’s the state of mind Don Johnston of Broken Flowers is in.

Johnston (Bill Murray) was a lady’s man back in his day, with many, many girlfriends to reminisce about. But that was then, and now he’s over the hill, voluntarily confined to his living room couch. Granted, he seems to make a comfortable living with a successful computer business under his belt, but there appears to be something missing in his life. One afternoon, though, a curious and compelling piece of mail arrives from an ex-lover. Unbeknownst to Johnston, this unknown ex (there is no name or return address on the mail) birthed Johnston’s son, who is now searching for his father. With a bouquet of flowers in hand, Johnston rises from the couch and sets out on a cross-country trip to solve the mystery of the unknown lover’s identity.

As much as I enjoy Bill Murray’s uniquely dry style of acting (as anybody does), I’ve never been able to completely warm up to him, and films like Broken Flowers and Lost in Translation break my heart to say that. These two films exhibit Murray as a true master of subtlety, the kind of actor that speaks great volumes with the slightest widening of the eyes. While the supporting performances are all wonderful (especially Jeffrey Wright as Murray’s partner-in-crime through this whole ordeal), the power of Broken Flowers rests almost exclusively on Murray’s shoulders. Murray is perfectly in tune with the tone Jarmusch is aiming for (a common praise I’ve given), and the result is one of his very best performances.

Jarmusch is known for being a bittersweet filmmaker, and Broken Flowers is Jarmusch leaning more toward bitter on the bittersweet spectrum. Broken Flowers is a bittersweet odyssey into one man’s surreal realization of the years that have passed, along with the changes that his surroundings and acquaintances have undergone, a moment I think we’ve all experienced in some capacity at some point in our lives. The entirety of Broken Flowers feels like that very thing, and never once loosens its grip. It may be a fact of life, but it’s never a fun thought to dwell on. The more I think and write about this film, the more tragic I realize it to be, all accentuated by a truly powerful ending that is simultaneously uplifting, heartbreaking, and thought-provoking.

It’s not all sadness, though. Peppered throughout Broken Flowers is enough of Jarmusch’s offbeat brand of humor to get enough chuckles out of viewers, particularly Johnston’s first stop, where he is greeted by this particular ex-lover’s Lolita-esque daughter named, well, Lolita. Keep a close eye on Murray’s facial reactions and try not to laugh. I dare you. And then there’s his visit to another ex-lover – once with a passionate desire to be a lawyer, and now she is an animal psychic (erm, excuse me; animal communicator). As funny as these particular moments are, they, like the rest of the movie, always remain grounded in the film’s uniquely bittersweet tone.

As I write this, I’m quite stricken by how little I have to say about it. While the script is plenty witty, it’s a film based off of wordless performance and feeling, so there’s not too much script to comment on. Cinematography gets the job done, but isn’t particularly special here. Granted, Jarmusch isn’t known for being a grandiose visionary, but there’s not much to comment on with Broken Flowers. Music doesn’t leave much to comment on either, but the film does feature a snippet of Sleep’s “Dopesmoker” – as a huge Sleep fan, I absolutely have to comment on that.

But the fact that Broken Flowers is so powerful in spite of so little to comment on is what makes it so special, and such a great film – so much so that I am adding it to my Greatest Favorites. While remaining grounded in that unique Jarmusch style, it also exhibits him delving into more emotional and existential (perhaps even personal) territory on a scale never before seen in his body of work. Sure, he has sacrificed some of that signature coolness with the absence of classic indie and hard rock ingredients, but it’s a sacrifice for the better and more universal.