Cosmopolis
Directed by David Cronenberg
- drama
The story
Riding across Manhattan in a stretch limo during a riot in order to get a haircut, a self-made 28-year-old billionaire asset manager's life begins to crumble.
What it’s like
Cold, glassy interiors and a restless camera that rarely leaves the car: almost the whole film unfolds inside a stretched limousine gliding through a bleached, rain-streaked Manhattan, with the city's light sliding across tinted windows in pale greens and washed-out greys. Cronenberg's framing is clinical and symmetrical, with long, unbroken takes of faces lit by screens and passing headlights, and the sound is muffled traffic, distant protest chants, and a flat, droning electronic score that hums rather than swells. The vibe is detached and quietly unsettling, a kind of sterile dread wrapped in polished luxury, best suited to a late-night viewing when you want to sit with something cool and strange. The pacing is deliberately slow and talky, built on dialogue about money, time and language, and the emotional register stays chilly and abstract while one man's composure gradually loosens. Violence is sudden, brief and matter-of-fact rather than gory, with a few shocking moments and some frank sexual content. It suits viewers who enjoy austere, idea-driven cinema and do not need warmth or a clear story.
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