Okay, fellow travelers through the magnetic tape time warp, let's settle in for something a little different today. Pull up a chair, pour yourself something comforting – maybe even brew some coffee, though perhaps skip the cigarette these days. We're revisiting a quiet corner of late 80s indie cinema, a small vignette that felt like discovering a hidden track on a favorite album: Jim Jarmusch's 1989 short, Coffee and Cigarettes II. Forget the bombast of the era's blockbusters; this was a different kind of viewing experience, one that often arrived unannounced, perhaps tucked onto a compilation tape or caught during a late-night television slot dedicated to the burgeoning independent film scene.
What strikes you first, even now, is the stillness. Rendered in crisp black and white, the film drops us into a Memphis diner booth, a world away from the neon glow often associated with the decade. There’s an immediate intimacy, a sense that we're eavesdropping on a private, slightly uncomfortable moment. The premise is deceptively simple: twins, portrayed with a wonderful, lived-in chemistry by siblings Joie Lee and Cinqué Lee, are having coffee. Their conversation is interrupted by an overly chatty, jittery waiter, played by a perfectly cast Steve Buscemi, who launches into a peculiar theory about Elvis Presley having an evil twin.
This wasn't the high-octane action or broad comedy dominating the multiplexes or the top shelves at Blockbuster. This was Jim Jarmusch, who by then had already carved out his unique niche with films like Stranger Than Paradise (1984) and Down by Law (1986), refining his signature blend of deadpan humour, minimalist aesthetics, and fascination with the mundane absurdity of human interaction. Coffee and Cigarettes II feels like quintessential Jarmusch, distilled. The camera holds, observing, letting the silence speak as much as the dialogue. The titular props aren't just background details; they're facilitators, punctuation marks in the rhythm of the conversation.
The magic truly lies in the performances. Joie Lee, radiating a cool skepticism, and Cinqué Lee, offering a more bemused tolerance, feel utterly authentic as siblings sharing a moment that veers unexpectedly into the weird. Their subtle glances and shared pauses convey a history that needs no exposition. And then there’s Steve Buscemi. Already making a name for himself as the go-to actor for nervous energy and off-kilter charm (this was the same year he appeared in Jarmusch's Memphis-set feature Mystery Train), he is brilliant here. His waiter isn't just serving coffee; he's serving unsolicited theories with a side of palpable anxiety. Watching him try to connect, to share this bizarre idea about Elvis's twin, is a masterclass in capturing social awkwardness. You feel for him, you cringe slightly, and you can't look away. Does his rambling reveal more about his own loneliness than any supposed rock and roll conspiracy?
It’s fascinating to remember this short, sometimes known simply as "Twins," existed for years before Jarmusch collected these vignettes into the feature film Coffee and Cigarettes in 2003. Discovering it back then felt special, like being privy to an artist's sketchbook. There were no flashy effects, no car chases, just the quiet intensity of human beings trying (and often failing) to connect over lukewarm coffee and lingering smoke. It wasn't shot on a massive budget; its power came from the writing, the perfectly pitched performances, and Jarmusch's confident, unhurried direction. The choice of Memphis, a city steeped in musical history and myth, adds another subtle layer, particularly given the Elvis-centric conspiracy theory Buscemi's character obsesses over. Did Jarmusch intentionally use this setting to gently poke at the very nature of American myth-making?
The conversation itself, particularly the Elvis theory, tiptoes around themes of identity, doubles, and even subtle commentaries on race and cultural appropriation, though always with Jarmusch’s characteristic obliqueness. It doesn't offer easy answers but leaves you pondering the strange currents running beneath seemingly ordinary exchanges. What assumptions do we make in casual conversation? How often do we truly listen, versus just waiting for our turn to talk?
For me, revisiting Coffee and Cigarettes II evokes that specific joy of discovering something unconventional on VHS – a film that didn't shout for attention but rewarded patience with its unique atmosphere and understated wit. It’s a reminder that cinema doesn't always need grand gestures to resonate. Sometimes, the most memorable moments are found in the quiet spaces, in the awkward pauses, in the shared ritual of a simple cup of coffee. It’s a perfectly brewed snapshot of Jarmusch’s distinct cinematic world.
Rating: 8/10 This rating reflects the short's excellence as a standalone piece of minimalist filmmaking. It achieves exactly what it sets out to do: crafting a compelling, funny, and subtly thought-provoking character study within a confined setting. The performances are pitch-perfect, and Jarmusch's direction is assured. While its brevity inherently limits its scope compared to a feature, as a vignette capturing a specific mood and style, it's near flawless and a crucial piece of the larger Coffee and Cigarettes puzzle.
It leaves you with the pleasant, slightly melancholic aftertaste of a strong coffee – a brief but stimulating encounter that lingers long after the credits (or in this case, the short's abrupt end) roll.