Really Awful Movies

“Violence needs a burden, it needs a purpose…” So does a film, or it becomes a burden. Such is the case of Cosmopolis, basically a drawn out book club discussion of Niall Ferguson’s The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World.

On the film side, it’s Waking Life, that is to say, episodic blather about Big Important Issues™, but instead of animated Intro to Philo musings, it’s all about the Benjamins…and set in a “stretch,” the jet-black limousine confines permanently occupied by bored billionaire Robert Packer.

Packer (the wraith-like Robert Pattinson) is a literary creation from the book of the same name, 2003’s Cosmopolis, by Don DeLillo. (Editor’s note: this reviewer owns a copy of DeLillo’s Underworld, which he makes an annual attempt to read. A test of endurance that began in 2005 with no end on the horizon.)

This stinging review of the novel, courtesy of the New York Times, could also apply to the film adaptation: “Beware the novel of ideas, particularly when the ideas come first and all the novel stuff (like the story) comes second…”

Cosmopolis is about a 1%er’s search for a haircut, a tactile and real experience that runs counter to his daily reality: market speculations regarding the Yuan and accumulating and losing hundreds of millions of dollars depending on the day. This is set against the backdrop of a presidential visit and an associated Occupy Wall Street rally by assorted ax-to-grind anarchists who spray paint his limo and subject him to lots of abuse.

Along the way, Packer is driven along New York’s “Madison Ave” – in reality, University Ave. in Toronto, known for its research hospitals and consulates. Given that the global equity markets are so intertwined, it seemed unnecessary to have Londoner Pattinson adopt a close-mouthed New Yawk accent here when he could’ve just been his ol’ British self. Or for that matter, to have Toronto stand in for the Big Apple considering Toronto is a global financial powerhouse in its own right, and its stock exchange one of the largest in the world in terms of market capitalization.

Packer interacts with various underlings and courtiers; in one instance sexually propositioning one of his currency traders while getting a prostate exam (his personal physician even makes “house calls” to the stretch). He’s a newlywed too, with a frigid blonde missus (a “cold hard cash” correlative? We won’t speculate).

Cosmopolis has all the excitement of a Janet Yellen rate hike announcement. Or non-commodity export recovery data warnings from the Bank of Canada.

There are a few highlights, including a terrific turn by Quebec actress Patricia McKenzie as one of Packer’s bodyguards (see image), as well as some trademark Cronenberg violence.

But ultimately Cosmopolis is an exercise in stone-faced self-satisfied maundering. And ironically, for a director who’s become known for cinematic claustrophobia (witness Spider or Shivers), he doesn’t manage to conjure up much of it, despite this being set in the back of a car.

**1/2 (out of 5)

“Bash her head in. OK, that was a bit harsh but we know what happens next.”

Indeed. And we as viewers know the road-map fairly well too. Antisocial though, offers up a scenic route of hallucination and social media to make it marginally stand apart from its virus zombie brethren.

Set on New Year’s Eve, with the neo-Gothic turrets of the University of Toronto a backdrop for some generic Pacific Northwest college, we’re introduced to the cast via a Facebook-like social network, which, it has to be said, is recreated with careful attention to detail (as are the subsequent news reports).

There’s a dribble of backstory as Criminology major and tomboy Sam is dumped via video chat by a boyfriend, a guy with a clearly wandering eye. She’s then convinced to hang out with her friends over drinks rather than wallow in New Year’s self-pity.

There are sudden media reports of a disturbance in one of the “residences,” betraying the Canadian-ness of this feature (it’d normally be called a “dorm” stateside, FYI). However it isn’t a lacrosse team on drunken bender; it’s coeds behaving very erratically.

Because everyone’s tethered by dendritic online connectivity even as they should be in celebration mode — these are millennials after all — and party-goers quickly get their updates online. Good on them. The authors of this site would be caught blissfully unawares.

We quickly find out that the breakdown in the social fabric is a widespread, global phenomenon, characterized by bleeding from the nose and ears and the aforementioned hallucinations. And it’s the latter from whence the frights are found. There are some bona fide Nightmare on Elm Street-like scares involving entrails.

It’s the social media stuff though, that sinks Antisocial a bit. Watching people video chat and update profiles doesn’t make for interesting visuals and ebbs vitality from the narrative.

The performances are pretty good, but as far as a new media send up, this fails to indict a culture overly dependent on social media (assuming this was its aim). For those interested in something similar, always check out the more briskly-paced Mulberry St, in which a group of Manhattanites rally to protect themselves from the rampaging hordes.

*** (out of 5)