Cosmopolis

My friend Jill Richmond and I saw "Cosmopolis" separately. Here's a transcript of our conversation: "Did you stay the whole time?" "Unfortunately, how about you?" "We left." "How soon?" "About forty-five minutes in." "Lucky dogs."


David Cronenberg's tedious and tendentious adaptation of Don DeLillo's seemingly unadaptable polemic stars the sylvan Robert Pattinson as Eric Packer, a Master of the Universe who insists on being driven across New York for a haircut even as a presidential motorcade, Occupy Wall Street type protesters, and flash flooding conspire to snarl the streets. Into his stretch limo flounce a series of employees, advisers and fuckbuddies, with transitions so abrupt you wonder whether the projectionist has pulled a practical joke. Each - including some surprisingly reputable actors (Juliette Binoche?!) - recites an overwritten monologue or engages Eric in some abstract dialogue, little of which makes sense and none of which amounts to anything. "Cosmopolis" is 109 minutes of didacticism, rodomontade, and logorrhea. In short, torture.