Last month, my home city of Washington, D.C. got a couple feet of snow and I spent three days holed up in my apartment. That brief 72-hour span alone nearly drove me to the brink of insanity, and so I suppose I get where the characters in the J.G. Ballard adaptation High-Rise are coming from. Their luxury apartment complex has sufficient amenities to make entering the outside world unnecessary, and so of course they all devolve into warlike tribes and turn on one another in an orgy of bourgeois social angling gone violent. A few days of snow nearly had me talking to cantaloupes with faces painted on them; life in a high-rise, even a fabulously posh one, would be more than enough to get me to eat my landlord‘s dog.