Cosmopolis

Cosmopolis – David Cronenberg’s 2011 film of Don Delillo’s novel of the same name is an honorable failure. The flaws in the film seem to me to be intrinsic to Delillo’s novel which is static, preachy, and schematic. Parker is a “master of the universe”, some kind of currency trader, and he is richer than God and all His angels. Parker floats around Manhattan in an elaborate stretch limousine that looks like some kind of high-tech casket. He has “Prousted” the limousine – that is, installed cork in the bullet-proof vehicle to make in sound-proof. As long as the film is confined to the stretch limousine, which becomes increasingly battered as the long day continues, the film is fairly effective. The eerie gliding motion of the limousine, its utter isolation from the chaotic city streets, and the weird creatures that Parker invites into his limousine for sex, or a prostate exam, or debates about recondite aspects of mercantile policy and capitalism are fairly interesting. Cronenberg is good with claustrophobia and dread and the limousine makes a good symbol for his hero’s alienation. But the film ultimately doesn’t make any sense and deteriorates into a laughable attempt at Dostoevsky – an author who poses a pernicious example and temptation to the hyper-ambitious Delillo. Leaving the limousine, Parker enters a picturesquely squalid, even Dickensian ruined building, where he encounters his nemesis – who turns out to be a poor schlub played by the never-menacing Paul Giamatti. Delillo writes gnomic stylized dialogue that plays like a clunky, tone-deaf David Mamet – you can’t believe anyone would say any of the words that his characters mouth – and Parker’s death-urge seems a convenient nod to our inevitable envy at beholding a character so ethereally beautiful and so majestically powerful as this character. The film is ambitious. Parker’s pilgrimage across Manhattan occurs on the same day that the President has appeared in the City and coincides with an impressive riot conducted by proto-Occupy Wall Street anarchists hurling dead rats at people. (Written in 2001, the novella has an enviable reputation for being incredibly prescient – Delillo predicted the crash of 2008 with unerring accuracy and, further, correctly prognosticated movements like Occupy Wall Street. But successful prophecy doesn’t necessarily equate to a good book and Cosmopolis is not one of Delillo’s best efforts by a long shot.) The film has some Cronenberg touches – a moment of horrendous, if brief, violence and strange, strangulated sex scenes and, for a joke, Cronenberg has hired Robert Pattinson, the vampire hunk from the Twilight pictures, to play his demonic hero. Pattinson is a cipher and, although he looks pretty, he’s not equal to the cryptic, riddling dialogue he has to speak, and big chunks of the film are simply stupid and gratuitous – for instance, why does Parker kill his chief of security? The ending of the movie is a complete bore and, although, I suppose the climactic dialogue between Pattinson’s financier and the insulted and injured Giamatta is supposed to be profound, it’s impossible to figure out exactly what is being said and why. Furthermore, it’s hard to hear – this is one of those films in which everyone speaks in a menacing, inaudible whisper.