One way that David Cronenberg’s Cosmopolis improves upon the Don DeLillo source novel is that it balances DeLillo’s cerebral prose with an exacting sense of corporeality. The stretch limo in which much of the book (and even more of the movie) takes place is an impossible space—and seeing it rather than imagining it makes one better appreciate the brilliance of the conceit. Eric Packer’s 22-foot-long chassis is decked with monitors that feed him information about anything he could possibly want to know; the dialogue, which blithely mentions trips to Arizona, Kazakhstan, and European villas, heightens the feeling that this car somehow contains the whole world. A symbol of outsize consumption and godlike omniscience, Packer’s ride is also eerily claustrophobic. Compared to the controlled inside environment, any outside phenomenon seems profoundly unreal. Cronenberg’s framing constantly reminds you that Packer and his rotating guests are boxed inside the vehicle, granting comparable amounts of the frame to the ceiling or tinted windows as to faces.