Review of Cosmopolis (2012) by Robert P — 11 Feb 2014

REWATCH: David Cronenberg doesn't so much traffic in transformation as he does in examination, not putting humanity on trial as much as under a highfalutin magnifying glass. And though it's been compared to his pinnacle 1983 satire "Videodrome" I'd sooner relate "Cosmopolis" to what I still consider the man's finest masterpiece to date, 1991's adaptation of William S. Burroughs' erotic mind-melt "Naked Lunch". (Also for whatever it's worth my favorite novel.) In that case, Cronenberg took notes from the literary source in addition to its own author's complicated life, crafting a film which oozed (literally) both style and immaculate substance, an ambitious experiment of corresponding story (Peter Weller as a gonzo, Burroughs-drawn exterminator who becomes high on his own toxic supply) as it is one of profound inspiration. (The final scene, to me, is up there with cinema's most stinging send-offs.).

With "Cosmopolis" he's tried to pin down something even more burdensome than a grossly episodic beatnik book of virtually no narrative foundation. It drew even me -- ME, the smartest and most interesting man in the world -- for a loop when I first saw it in 2012. It's based on the equally controversial 2003 Don DeLillo (diamond-)hardcover, which waxes poetically the tangential tale of billionaire capital asset manager Eric Packer (Robert Pattinson bringing his token lack of expression to the fold of a whiter white-collar bloodsucker), whose 24-hour excursion across midtown Manhattan is interrupted by a city-wide gridlock caused by a visit from the president; women; business associates; and a civil riot skewed from the inside of the paranoid Packer's illustrious chalk-colored limo.

"Cosmopolis" is a contraption stuffed with such purported importance and wistful merit, with icy dialogue that sounds so crisp and distant, it's amazing, then, that in a pre-"Counselor" world critics weren't as up in arms about something so cynical as they were for Ridley Scott's frustratingly articulate pseudo-thriller just over a year later. Like Scott, Cronenberg is a filmmaker apparent for a certain brand of influence who seems to be strengthening his trademark into an almost Lynchian sense of sophisticated deconstruction. But the auteur of old hasn't completely changed. Like Eric Packer's halted cartel, he's only crossed a divide. Welcome to Annexia. (83/100).