“Jim Jarmusch is old school. He writes all his scripts out by hand and then dictates them to a typist. Ideas are jotted down in small, color-coordinated notebooks and, despite the presence of an iPad and iPhone in his life, he doesn’t have email. ‘I don’t have enough time as it is to read a book or make music, or see my friends… no, I do not have email.’ …
Jarmusch could be called vampiric, too, and not just for his predominantly black wardrobe and movie-villain-like nimbus of silver hair, which he has styled and cut himself since he was a boy. At 61, he still has an unquenched cultural thirst: old school but with a tremendous jones for new (or new-to-him) projects. …
More than three decades into filmmaking, Mr. Jarmusch remains the rare indie director who achieved critical success (and four prizes at Cannes) and enough prestige to cast bankable movie stars like Cate Blanchett and Johnny Depp, and yet never made a move toward Hollywood, never even leapt at directing a commercial. Instead he has maintained, in movies and music, his own wry, rad vision. …
Coming projects include a quasi-documentary about the Stooges (“a little poetic essay,” Mr. Jarmusch said); an opera about Nikola Tesla, in collaboration with his friend the composer Phil Kline and the international director Robert Wilson; and another feature, about a bus driver and poet in Paterson, N.J., that Mr. Jarmusch wrote in the years he waited for “Only Lovers” to come together.
'I take on a lot more now,' he said, partly out of age, experience and desire, and partly out of professional gumption. …
[A]s an aficionado of decay, he has, of course, imagined his own demise.
The Zoroastrians, an ancient Iranian religious group, ‘get eaten by vultures,’ he said. ‘They put their dead bodies on a mountaintop, and they get eaten. I would love that.’”
In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat
On the silent sea we have heard the sound
That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.
Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.
Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.”