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.

FILM REVIEW: Coffee and Cigarettes (2003)

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

* * ½

As I sit here writing this, Coffee and Cigarettes is quickly proving to be one of the most difficult movies I’ve yet reviewed, so I apologize in advance if this review is not up to my usual standard. To talk about this film as a whole is extremely challenging, as it makes more practical sense to narrow it down from segment to segment (a handful of said segments were originally released as short films, after all), but to do that would result in writing the same overall thing over and over. In the grand scheme of things, Coffee and Cigarettes is one of those films where the idea is better than the movie itself, but it’s still kind of difficult to not be taken by its charming spell.

A series of vignettes featuring conversations between characters with no connection whatsoever, and the only mutual factor in each segment is that each dialogue is had over questionable doses of coffee and cigarettes. In spite of the potential for witty writing and quirky and unique characters (it does feature an impressive cast), the concept (or gimmick, depending on your perspective) of Coffee and Cigarettes offers little to no promise of sprawling production design, gorgeous cinematography, or a gripping plot. On one hand, it is enough to make somebody laugh at a movie of such simplicity has the audacity to exist. On another hand, it’s such a charming idea that you can’t help but be drawn to it, even at the slightest level.

For us Jarmusch fans, it’s simply mandatory viewing.

I suppose Coffee and Cigarettes exhibits the levels of quality Jarmusch is capable of, from his absolute worst to his absolute best. There are some moments are just there with nothing particularly remarkable to say about them, and the most you can say has already been said by the title. One particular segment, “Jack Shows Meg His Tesla Coil” (featuring notable rock due the White Stripes), is insufferable in just how hard its trying to be so quirky and indie.

There are some segments that have something very interesting going on, no matter how little is happening. Take, for instance, “Renee”: a lovely young woman sits by herself reading “Guns N’ Ammo” while the young waiter repeatedly visits, desperate to start a conversation. Though that’s the entire scene, I sense something going on in the undercurrents, and the result is very alluring. Unfortunately, though, the scene cuts too short. There are a number of segments that meet a similar fate.

And then there’s a number of scenes that are just there that I simply cannot comment on if my life depended on it, like “No Problem” and “Cousins” – in spite of some great talent present, there is absolutely no substance whatsoever (with the exception of the latter’s ending). But then there are some moments that truly shine. Two in particular come to mind – “Delirium”, where the Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA and GZA find themselves being waited on by the one and only Bill Murray (all playing themselves, by the way). The other most notable segment is “Somewhere in California”, featuring Tom Waits and Iggy Pop extolling coffee and cigarettes as the perfect combination. The latter segment was once released as a short film, and actually won the Best Short award at the Cannes Film Festival.

As for the overall product: while none of the actors present really exhibit their abilities, their mere presence does bring some excitement, I must admit – how can you not love a conversation between Roberto Benigni and Steven Wright, even if there’s practically nothing to the scene itself? Scenes don't really transition, nor is there any individual identity to the segments, but Jarmusch does captures the very activity of coffee and cigarettes extremely well (and, yes, I am considering that an activity unto itself), with the gritty photography and various cafes utilized. Ultimately, Coffee and Cigarettes is probably more sizzle vs. steak, but it needs to be seen to be believed.

FILM REVIEW: Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (1999)

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

* * *

Gangsters. Hip-hop. Samurai. Mean streets. Meditation. Only a filmmaker like Jim Jarmusch could blend these elements together, and perhaps only Jarmusch could blend them and make them work. This is exactly what he did in 1999, with the release of Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. While the film may not be a total success due to its slow pace and a few missed opportunities, the film still stands strong, carried along by a powerhouse performance from leading man Forest Whitaker.

Mobster Louie (John Tormey) is summoned by his superiors – one of their own has been whacked, and Louie has the dirt on the killer. That killer is only known as Ghost Dog (Forest Whitaker), a contract killer with a perfect record who only communicates via pigeon-carried messages. He is an enigma of a man, quiet, reserved, and humble, no doubt accredited to his choice of lifestyle: Ghost Dog lives strictly by the code of the samurai, as outlined in the samurai guidebook Hagakure. Now, the mob is out for Ghost Dog’s blood, but Ghost Dog’s not going down without a fight…but does retaliation against his opponents conflict from the code of the samurai?

Just as meditation is essential to the way of the samurai, a meditative quality perpetuates throughout Ghost Dog. Unsurprising, considering this is a Jarmusch’s love for the mundane and everyday. Peppered throughout the meditative Ghost Dog are parables from Hagakure narrated by Whitaker. These moments never fail to leave the viewer’s mind inert, but I’d be lying if Ghost Dog’s meditativeness didn’t overstay its welcome. Even after taking advantage of the film’s numerous opportunities to think about said parables and applying them into the film, these very scenes go on and on, dragging the film’s pace down a few notches – if you ask me, Ghost Dog did not need to be two hours whatsoever.

There is a line that Ghost Dog walks very riskily but never crosses: I find myself wondering if Ghost Dog should even be the protagonist of the film. That may sound strange, considering the movie is named after him, but he is such a uniquely enigmatic and alluring character, much of which is due to his mysterious nature. Is making him the primary focus of the movie weakening his allure? I find myself conflicted in my opinion on that. Granted, I loved spending time with Ghost Dog, but I feel that the character would have made a much stronger impression if he was kept chilling in the shadows. This isn’t so much a criticism as much as it is a possibly missed opportunity. Perhaps some of those slower scenes that I criticized could be replaced with more exploits from the hilarious gangsters, who I can confidently say don’t get as much screen time as they should.

Ghost Dog may stumble from time to time, but it is far, far from a bad movie (or a mediocre one, at that). The strongest element of the film is undoubtedly Forest Whitaker, in what might be his best performance (definitely my favorite of his). He is perfectly in tune with the material at hand, trucking along with a humble swagger that you can get only from a Jarmusch film. The gangsters also deserve a mention, hilarious in their reprisal of comical B-grade gangsters, but never overdoing it.

The film’s writing is a mixed bag for me. Though the Hagakure excerpts throughout are great food for thought, those are the words of Yamamoto Tsumetoto’s, not Jarmusch. Much of the dialogue is fairly bland, with a few highlights here and there, most notably a scene when Louie is describing the unusual nature of Ghost Dog to his superiors, and the hilarious confusion that follows. But my favorite moments involve Ghost Dog’s interaction with his best friend Raymond (Isaach De Bankole), a French ice cream truck driver who speaks practically no English. In turn are Ghost Dog’s chats about books with a young girl named Pearline (Camille Winbush). In spite of the writing’s blandness throughout the majority of the movie, these moments are rich with material, and are undoubtedly some of the most memorable scenes in Ghost Dog.

Topping off the best elements of Ghost Dog is a terrific score by Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA, which blends chill hip-hop beats serenaded with familiar elements of ancient Japanese music.   

It’s difficult to make a truly great film with all of the pulpy and exotic elements used in Ghost Dog – not impossible, but difficult. But for what it’s worth, Ghost Dog is still deserving a watch. Yeah, it’s a slog from time to time, but not only is it still Jarmusch, but it’s Jarmusch experimenting with very unique and singular territory that nobody else is treading into, and not once is he annoyingly overdoing it, contrary to other films and filmmakers who blend styles in such a manner. Make no mistake, though: Ghost Dog is indeed a Jarmusch film, and the fact that he can achieve all of this while still maintaining his unique brand of filmmaking is truly a feat unto itself.

FILM REVIEW: Dead Man (1995)

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

* * ½

Dead Man, Jim Jarmusch’s landmark Western, ends on a scene bordering on the Kafkaesque brand of surreal, simultaneously radiating as a moment of transcendent beauty, as a dazed and delirious Johnny Depp trudges through the pathways of a Native American village, inspiring strange yet sympathetic stares from the locals, all set to the screaming guitars of Neil Young’s background score. It was one of those moments that could almost spawn tears from my eyes in exhibiting the power that the cinematic experience holds. I sincerely wish I was as involved in the movie that led up to this incredible moment.

Is Dead Man a good movie? Ultimately, I have to say “no” to that question. I really don’t want to have to say that, because it is also a truly unique entry into the Western genre. Granted, the film stumbles too many times to be able to work. When it does work, though, it takes the viewer into a surreal rendition of the Western American landscape the likes of which we rarely see, if at all. For that alone, it’s worth a watch.

William Blake (Johnny Depp) is just getting off the train after a torturously lengthy trip from Cleveland. He has just arrived to the town of Machine. In one hand is his suitcase. In the other is a letter guaranteeing him work as an accountant for the metal works, run by John Dickinson (Robert Mitchum). When he arrives at his new workplace, though, the position has already been filled. Later that day, he gets involved in a fight that leaves him with a gunshot wound and with blood on his hands, after killing the very man who shot him. It turns out that the man killed was John Dickinson’s son. Now he wants vengeance, hiring three bounty hunters to track him down. Meanwhile, on the run, Blake has been taken under the wing of Nobody (Gary Farmer), a lone Native American who mistakes Blake for the famed English poet of the same name.

The opening scene sets the tone of Dead Man as a dreamlike trip into the rugged west, as well as signaling its biggest issue of the film: pacing. From the opening alone, a scene will fade in just to fade out within seconds without anything happening. Rinse and repeat for several minutes (I’m not alone in this opinion – take a look at the first paragraph in Roger Ebert’s review). In all fairness, regarding the opening in particular, it does add to the disorientation of the train ride, but it still doesn’t completely work, and as I’ve said before, this issue perpetuates throughout the entire movie.

One scene, something significant happens, but then it’s over before you know it. Another scene, nothing much happens, and goes on longer than it needs to. There’s nothing wrong with long scenes that exist purely for mood, but there’s no balance in Dead Man. Additionally, in a great twist of irony, one of the movie’s highlights adds to its awkwardness: Neil Young’s score. First off, it is absolutely incredible, as it wails with rugged screams, lamenting the nightmare that the American West had become – I think the music itself is the best part of the movie. That said, the score kicks in at inopportune moments, and makes dramatic situations become melodramatic, in turn just a hint laughable.

I feel like the performances never become what they have the potential to be, like everybody involved is holding back just slightly, save for Mitchum, who is the most magnetic part of the entire movie – too bad he’s not in the movie very long. Still, everybody gets the job done at least. Nobody overdoes it, but I feel like everybody had potential to give so much more to their roles than they actually did.

As much as it pains me to say this, I think the catalyst for every issue in Dead Man is from Jarmusch himself. His brand of filmmaking doesn’t quite suit the material or the atmosphere he’s going for. There were countless moments where I was being drawn in, and just when I was on the threshold of being completely entranced, Jarmusch brings in one of his usual tropes (namely his brand of comic relief) that just take me right out. Additionally, he’s not completely focused on what he’s trying to say – is this a criticism of the rugged foundation America was built on? Some sort of necessity for the White Man to get back in touch with nature and the spirit world? I acknowledge it could be both, but nothing comes completely into fruition.

The review you’ve read probably makes me seem like I saw nothing about it was good, but I assure you that it’s not all bad. When Dead Man does work, it’s an absolutely fascinating take on the western with some gorgeous black & white imagery. While ultimately unfocused, there are enough hints of themes on the rugged reality of the American Dream, even some bits of existentialism here and there, so if you were more involved than I was, it’ll definitely give you something to think about. There’s a lot of heart and sincerity to Jarmusch’s intentions in Dead Man, though, and I give him credit – I’d rather have unfocused sincerity than focused cynicism. With Dead Man, it’s the former, with a twist of originality.