But there’s still some value to the process. The low-key profundity and conspicuous coolness of Jarmusch’s films make the act of ranking them feel even more arbitrary and toxically uncool than it has to be.
That last one sounds awfully familiar, coming from an artist who’s made his obsession with the cultural detritus of the past abundantly clear. The constants of Jarmusch’s career come out in full force: The film’s got allusions by the bushel, very little plot, and a main character who feels out of joint with his place and time. In typically Jarmuschian fashion, there’s both not much more and worlds more to it than that.
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His latest project is Paterson, which stars Adam Driver as a New Jersey workingman who thinks about poetry and eavesdrops on the passengers in the bus he drives. Jim Jarmusch is, by anyone’s account, one cool cat. He’s friends with Tom Waits and the Wu-Tang Clan. Jarmusch traffics in esoterica he likes literature and poetry, jazz and blues, vintage cinema and the analog technologies used to project it. He makes movies motivated by mood and abstract ideas, full of people sitting around (or walking around, or driving around) and revealing themselves through what appears to be idle conversation. When he finds an image he likes, he has no reservations about lingering on it for a few extra beats. The master of American indie cinema has never been in a rush, not once in his career.
To describe Jim Jarmusch as the chillest filmmaker working today may not sound like high praise, and yet, no other term seems right to cover his style.