By Christopher Maag
Drug dealers do drive cars like this. And so do cops, garbage men, Philadelphia Eagles linebackers and barbers. The typical owner of a car like this is anybody who grew up poor in an American city, mostly African-American men but not exclusively, between the ages of 17 and about 45. They call their cars all kinds of names—boxes, bubbles, Monties, Cutties—based on different makes and shapes, but the most widely accepted term is “donk.”
By Liz Spikol
The first and inimitable best of the series—almost as innocent in its intentions as Breakfast at Tiffany’s. This initial installment was an earnest evocation of comic books and serials, and it worked perfectly with a kickass cast featuring Harrison Ford and Karen Allen.
By Matt Prigge
Turns out Borat’s not the only funny Kazakh. Given that it’s another unholy blend of doc footage and artificial storytelling, Tulpan looks for all the world like a second go of the overrated The Story of the Weeping Camel. But there’s one secret ingredient longtime documentarian Sergei Dvortsevoy has added: humor. That seems to have done the trick, as this Cannes favorite is, rather than a National Geographic snore, an irresistible mix of ethnography porn and deadpan silliness often worthy of its obvious inspiration, Werner Herzog.
By Matt Prigge
On the surface is a story that would’ve pleased Yasujiro Ozu. Assayas opens with a vast party—one of his favorite things to shoot, as in the criminally hard-to-find Cold Water—held at the Northern France country manse of aging but very lucid grandma Edith Scob. Her three children are scattered all over the map: Eldest son Charles Berling lives in Paris, but Jérémie Renier works in China and Juliette Binoche is a New York designer. So when Scob up and dies, these three busy careerists can’t properly attend to the riches she’s left behind—namely an idyllic summer home filled with a private museum worth of paintings, artworks and antiques.