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Riding across Manhattan in a stretch limo in order to get a haircut from his father's old barber, a 28-year-old billionaire (Robert Pattinson) senses his empire collapsing around him.
Over and above its topical urgency or the bit about the misfortune of globalism, it does what this director has always done in his films: split open the head of a character, plunge inside and try to visualise the bad and the ugly things to be found there.
Poor Pattinson does the best he can. He's not terrible. But he's definitely out of his element, if not beyond his depth, an altar boy in a bishop's robes.
Cronenberg's cold, exacting precision and emotionally removed observation may not grab all viewers, but under those perfect surfaces is a raw horror trying to claw out of the denial.
Cronenberg is not a director to be daunted by a scenario in which the antihero spends most of his time in a stretch limo. Turning it into a film that interests anyone ... is another matter