Combine the ice-cool, dead-pan wit of indie cinema’s favourite son with the ice-cool, dead-pan delivery of everyone’s favourite comic and the results are bound to be devastating. Broken Flowers does just that with Bill Murray in the hot seat and Jim Jarmusch calling the shots. Looking for company in all the wrong places, there’s something of a Lost In Translation 2 about proceedings as Don Johnston (Murray) embarks on an odyssey of reconciliation that finds him culturally adrift in America’s heartland. This is remarkable romantic comedy in which Murray and Jarmusch are the perfect match.

Their mastery of minimalism creates romance and comedy so muted it needs captions. The deliberately measured pace, Don’s track-suit obsession, shuffling attitude and the film’s obscurely unsatisfying ending all leave you wanting more. But in a good way. These are elements that would make similar productions die a grisly screen death yet here, they’re note perfect.

Triggered by the sudden departure of his wife (Julie Delpy), Don resolves to unravel a mystery that suggests he has a son. He warily seeks out the only four women who might know the truth which results in a road-trip across the American psyche, a journey populated with the oddly peculiar and the knowingly odd (none more so than trashy Sharon Stone and her jailbait daughter, Lolita). It is this playfulness in front, behind and around the camera that colours the bittersweet canvas, one that is as resoundingly funny as it is generous of spirit. Murray’s trademark, understated delivery presents a triumph of observation and detail that reveals as much about Don as it does our own dilemma driven lives. Broken Flowers is the brightest bouquet.

// COLIN FRASER