Jim Jarmusch is famous among indie directors for slow plotting, unconventional storytelling and dense concepts. His latest film, The Limits of Control amounts to a 116-minute wait for some spark of ingenuity to kick in and impress upon the viewer a sense of why this man’s work has amassed such a cult following.

Though his signature elements are present and accounted for – from the “are we there yet” pacing to the attempts at philosophical dialogue, it all falls horribly flat. This isn’t to say the film has no merit. Jarmusch and his team do a credible job of establishing a dreamlike tone at the start of the picture, and proceed from there to skilfully lull the viewer into an unquestioning, zombie-like state where the simple pleasure of looking at birds fluttering about Spanish rooftops is enough to keep one entertained. After forty minutes, however, the appeal is gone.

The plot unfolds as such: a silent hitman (Isaach De Bankolé) with an almost inhuman amount of self-control travels around Spain exchanging match-boxes with various talkative characters, growing ever-closer to his mysterious target. He always orders the same two separate cups of espresso and spends his evenings lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. Like the premise, there’s clearly some potential there, but Jarmusch is content to leave it unexplored.

Among those who cross this hitman’s path is a perpetually naked brunette (Paz De La Huerta) who pops up repeatedly and tries to seduce him clad only in her transparent, plastic raincoat. John Hurt, Gael Garcia Bernal and Bill Murray also stop by, but Jarmusch is careful to save these bigger names for later in the picture, not that their parts are especially memorable.

Ultimately, Tilda Swinton’s bleached blonde cowgirl leaves the most lasting impression, coming in at about the half-way mark to pull aside the green curtain and reveal the true nature of the Great and Powerful Oz’s intentions. When she says, straight-faced, “Sometimes, I like it in films when people just sit there, not saying anything,” in the middle of a one-way conversation, everything becomes clear: this picture was never intended to be anything more than a protracted lark, an artistic experiment on the part of those involved.

The only moment in which the film threatens to spring to life is during a startling flamenco performance nearly three-quarters of the way through. It’s a much-needed jolt to the system, and sure to leave viewers wishing for more such examples of cultural artistry.

The Limits of Control is playing at AMC Forum 22 and Cinema du Parc.