Everything and nothing happens in "Cosmopolis," a convoluted tale of excess, both of the capitalist and verbal varieties.
Eric Packer (Robert Pattinson) is a 28-year-old hedge-fund billionaire riding his limo across town for a haircut. His limo is fully stocked, capable of handling his daily medical exam, meetings with his oracular financial adviser (Samantha Morton) and the occasional sexual liaison with his art dealer (Juliette Binoche). He also disembarks (it's a long, slow ride) for three meals with his ice-queen fiancee (Sarah Gadon) and a fateful final meeting with an angry little man (Paul Giamatti) who represents the antithesis of Packer's wealth, good looks and confidence.
Director David Cronenberg, adapting Dom DeLillo's novel, gives his cast giant gobs of arch dialogue on which to chew, and most of it is difficult to digest. It's fascinating to watch Pattinson actually acting, rather than merely brooding through another "Twilight" movie, but he's as trapped in Cronenberg's sterile intellectualism as Packer is in his leather-upholstered hell.