Life happens in the back of limo in sedentary, cryptic ‘Cosmopolis’

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Countless teenage girls will go see Robert Pattinson in “Cosmopolis” because they’re totally Team Edward, they can’t believe Kristen Stewart would betray him like that with that old director guy who’s not even hot – well, not hawt like RPattz is hot, anyway – and besides, the final “Twilight” movie won’t be out for another 2½ months and that’s, like, practically forever and stuff.

Boy, will they be in for a surprise.

Written and directed by David Cronenberg (“Dead Ringers,” “A History of Violence”), “Cosmopolis” isn’t your typical movie. Your first clue: the words “written and directed by David Cronenberg.” Your second: As a rule, things tend to happen in a movie.

Whether you love or loathe art-house films, there’s plenty in the alternately fascinating and frustrating “Cosmopolis” to hold up as examples of your passion.

The movie opens on a line of identical white stretch limousines as billionaire assets manager Eric Packer (Pattinson) informs the head of his security detail (Kevin Durand) that he needs a haircut.

This seemingly simple task drives the movie’s action, such as it is, and nothing – not a traffic-snarling presidential motorcade, a winding procession for a celebrity funeral, a water main break, an anarchist uprising, not even a credible threat on his life – will derail Packer from getting those locks snipped.

But then Packer doesn’t care much about the outside world that creeps by, largely unnoticed, outside his precious limousine. He takes meetings there, he has sex there, he urinates there, he even gets his daily physical there, complete with a prostate exam, while he chats with a female business associate.

The bulk of “Cosmopolis” is a series of these encounters, as acquaintances wander in and out of the limo and key events unfold through the window behind Packer’s head like a hyperstylized take on the video for U2’s “Sweetest Thing.”

But there’s something decidedly off about these interactions. If someone were to rip Packer’s head from his shoulders and expose nothing but frayed circuitry, it wouldn’t rank as much of a surprise.

He and his inner circle speak cryptically, mostly about currency trades and security matters, often sounding as though each partner is engaged in a separate conversation. No one has the slightest clue how to communicate. Entire scenes seem to consist solely of dialogue unfurled from a giant fortune cookie.

“Your eyes are blue,” a young woman (Sarah Gadon) coolly remarks as Packer removes his sunglasses. “You never told me you were blue-eyed.”

She’s later revealed to be his wife.

“I like your mother,” Packer soon tells her, in one of his many sexually charged statements. “You have your mother’s breasts.”

They cross paths often during his crosstown odyssey, and she’s one of the few reasons for which he leaves the limo. But even then, he’s usually only seen sitting. “Cosmopolis” may be the most sedentary movie since “My Dinner With Andre.”

Among the places he sits other than the backseat of his limo: a taxi, two diners, an upscale restaurant, a barber’s chair, a couch in a squatter’s hovel, a toilet positioned over a hole in the floor of that squatter’s hovel, and the front seat of his limo. Even during a side trip to a nightclub, he sits in the balcony, unflinching, observing everyone else.

Packer walks so infrequently you forget he’s ambulatory. But there’s not much motion to be found anywhere in “Cosmopolis.” Packer spends so little time blinking during many of the film’s long, uninterrupted takes, you could waste several minutes trying to best him in a staring contest. You would lose.

But that’s likely the part the Twi-hards, at least the ones who stick around long enough, will find most comforting.

It’s basically like watching one of their Pattinson posters come (somewhat) to life.

Contact Christopher Lawrence at
clawrence@reviewjournal.com or 702-380-4567.