Most of the little that's said in Limits of Control is stuff like "Everything is subjective ... Reality is arbitrary ... Life is a handful of dust" (though that gets translated as "Life is a handful of dirt"). You've gathered by now that no way is this a thriller, although it teases against the outline of one. Its hipster self-consciousness includes name-dropping (Eliot, Rimbaud, Hitchcock; the title is from William Burroughs), homage (Citizen Kane, Contempt, De Chirico), and quite a bit of cutting from paintings to actual scenes that resemble them, and vice versa. It's all impeccably shot by Christopher Doyle, who knows just how to light De Bankolé and his dark monochrome outfits against dark monochrome backgrounds, and make us glad he does. Otherwise, Limits of Control pales in comparison to Jarmusch's other film centered on a taciturn black assassin, Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (1999), with Forest Whitaker. There the minimalist narrative took on an aura of ritual, devotion, and genuine mystery. The rituals being observed in Limits of Control feel empty and played out. --Richard T. Jameson