This is a plaintive, intelligent, laconic New York comedy – almost avant-garde, certainly avant-garde in comparison to major feature films – that owes nothing at all to Woody Allen. What Woody Allen owes to Ingmar Bergman and Charlie Chaplin, Jim Jarmusch owes to Samuel Beckett and Buster Keaton... From beginning to end, Jarmusch carries it off. His vision is stranger than paradise, and his talent is odder than hell.
Jay Scott
noviembre 16, 1984