The movie does not display its director at the top of his form. It is a bravely uncommercial and admirably ambitious film – but also rather thin and superficial. Unlike Dead Man (1995), the masterpiece that Jarmusch has yet to match again, it is a work that gives up all its jewels on a single viewing.
“There are limits to artistic self-indulgence,” begins Todd McCarthy’s review in Variety. I disagree. And there are no limits to the pleasures that can be afforded from this kind of freedom.