You don’t need to have seen Armando Ianucci’s brilliant political Britcom The Thick of It to appreciate this big-screen version of his beloved TV show. (Though we strongly recommend that you go buy an all-region DVD player, visit Amazon U.K. and order the program’s first season and specials stat—just for your own viewing pleasure. You may thank us later.) Sure, the film features Thick’s rancorous, ribald spin doctor, Malcolm Tucker, played by the motormouthed actor Peter Capaldi. But anyone going into this comedy cold won’t feel lost; frankly, viewers who don’t even possess a working knowledge of parliamentary procedures or the resident at No. 10 Downing Street (google it and find out) will be able to catch on quickly. Some ideas translate without loss across the pond…like, say, the notion that political institutions are rife with greedy, petty, status-obsessed idiots, regardless of whether they are located in Britain or the Beltway. And, of course, a well-turned insult always works wonderfully; a cursory list of the movie’s eloquently offensive put-downs would include “Horse of the Year,” “the baby from Eraserhead,” “a Nazi Julie Andrews” and several references to a large mammal’s well-oiled genitalia. Ianucci’s frenzied satire about how a low-level minister’s offhanded remark virtually underwrites a Middle East invasion isn’t perfect, but it is, pound for pound, the funniest and most quotable movie you’re likely to see all year. In the Loop screens tonight and tomorrow, and will open in July. Genius.

Okay, so the language wasn’t that coarse, but nevertheless, writer-directer Armando Iannucci’s political satire In the Loop, which is one of our top ten picks of the Tribeca Film Festival, does contain some choice words—and James Gandolfini delivering them. And while the characters break new frontiers in derogatory remarks, Iannucci explains it’s not just for shock value.

However, the worst curser of them all is Malcolm Tucker (here’s the proof, but please do not watch in front of your grandmother), played by Peter Capaldi and based on Alastair Campbell: the chief press secretary for Tony Blair, a press manipulator and all-around political enforcer. But according to Iannucci, President Obama’s chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, could make even him blush.

1974: Not the smoothest of years, with Nixon fleeing the White House and all, but almost certainly the funkiest. While boxers Ali and Foreman trained for their “Rumble in the Jungle,” a detachment of American musicians jetted to Zaire to take part in the scene. The outcome, chronicled in the head-bobbingly exuberant Soul Power, was a three-day concert of classic artists performing at their peak. James Brown is a whirling, caped superhero; B.B. King seduces his audience with bluesy string-bends. The footage here has the same raw, intimate feel as 1996’s When We Were Kings, about the fight itself. If Soul Power isn’t quite as well shaped or revelatory as that fight doc, it still feels like an essential part of the story. History was being made during those weeks in Africa, not just the burnishing of Ali’s mythology but a global dream of black power and tuneful confidence. The movie screens tonight and twice more; you’ll have tons of fun with it.

Who is Maïwenn (center)? You’ve seen her before, as this sexy alien in The Fifth Element or tied up in the French horror movie High Tension. She is also sisters with the sylphlike Isild Le Besco, an award-winning actor in France, and has a salacious romantic past with Luc Besson. Most importantly, Maïwenn boasts a sense of humor about herself—one would have to, if you’ve been dumped for Milla Jovovich—and a mean streak that she’s turned into a successful stand-up career. Finally, Maïwenn is a director, as such people often become. All About Actresses is her mockumentary about a director (Maïwenn herself) falling for her vain celebrity subjects. The names are not important; they’re mostly Gallic stars. But the film gets at some scalpel-sharp ideas of fame and aging, universal concerns. It screens tonight and two more times—definitely worth checking out.

One of our picks for this year’s Tribeca Film Festival was the elegy to the Bowery’s fabled punk venue, Burning Down the House: The Story of CBGB. We were at the premiere and spoke to C.J. and Marky Ramone about how it felt being a punk on the red carpet, as well as director Mandy Stein, who first went to CBGB when she was three. Unsurprisingly, she remembers being scared of the Ramones.

Lest we forget—or somehow remain ignorant of—New York’s avant-scuzz cinema heyday of the late ’70s and early ’80s, Celine Danhier’s documentary on Gotham’s taboo-shattering No Wave movie scene offers up a who’s-who primer of the downtowners who made it happen. Sure, everybody knows the name Jim Jarmusch, future shock-haired patron saint of Indiewood USA…but what about Amos Poe, Nick Zedd, Bette Gordon (whose career highlight, 1983’s Variety, is  part of the fest’s 2009 “Restored/Rediscovered” sidebar) and Eric Mitchell? These filmmakers, working in conjunction with various Village-based contingents (punk and postpunk rockers, transgressive painters, photographers and poets), created their own snarling, satirical and savage celluloid screams that are as fertile as any hipster art produced during the period.

The fact that Danhier’s time capsule doubles as a eulogy for below-14th-Street bohemianism only bittersweetens the deal, with various talking heads bemoaning how the Reagan era slowly squeezed the artistic community out of their own ‘hood. More than a few of the testimonials mention how, thanks to artist-unfriendly rent prices and chic-boutique gentrification, such a flowering of edgy talent will probably never happen in lower Manhattan again. Whether that’s true remains to be seen; in the meantime, check out yesteryear’s low-budget LES flicks and glorious flipped birds at good taste, memorialized in 24 frames per second. There’s only one screening left; get on this by clicking here.

The previous Quentin Crisp biopic, The Naked Civil Servant, bore all the grain-and-blur hallmarks of British television circa 1975. Its almost-four-decades later sequel, An Englishman in New York (click here for tonight’s screening details), is similarly indebted to the small screen, this time to the low-budget, hi-def gloss of American TV. This isn’t a criticism, exactly. As with Civil Servant, the underwhelming artifice helps to highlight John Hurt’s terrific central performance. Revisiting the role that made him a star in his native England, Hurt slips back easily into Crisp’s polite, effeminate rhythms. Englishman begins just after Civil Servant’s TV premiere, when Crisp found himself a sudden celebrity, for good and for ill. He receives as much praise as he does derision—when a seething homophobe calls him up in the middle of the night, Crisp quite kindly asks him if he’d like to schedule an appointment to beat him up. Read more »

Exactly the kind of film that makes us think Tribeca is maturing, Bradley Rust Gray’s The Exploding Girl derives its title from a Cure B-side (”The Exploding Boy,” to be precise) but otherwise feels very personal. Surface traits peg the movie as mumblecore [Shudder]: Brooklyn locales, the headbound ennui of college-educated twentysomethings, plenty of verbal awkwardness. But Zoe Kazan’s central performance—as a moody epileptic shaking off a breakup—anchors the film with uncommon emotional heft, thoughtfully left unresolved. (Kazan is probably tired of reading about the Hollywood royalty she springs from, so let’s just say we’ve got a rising star on our hands.) The film screens several more times during the fest, including this afternoon. Tickets appear to have moved fast, but there’s always the rush line, a more effective option than you might think. Try. You won’t be disappointed.

Awwww. Don’t you miss it? Tonight, the festival world-premieres Mandy Stein’s tribute to the late punk mecca, sure to press buttons for those whose definition of downtown dates earlier than the opening of American Apparel. Stein’s father was the founder of Sire Records, meaning she’s got an insane amount of access to legendary notables; this trailer gives you an idea of the folks on record, everyone from late founder Hilly Kristal to Sting. It’s one of the offerings we’re most excited about. Also included in the documentary is an examination of the renter’s clash that led to the club’s demise (and the failed campaign to save it). Ultimately, though, you’re there for band footage: the Ramones, Talking Heads, Television. These groups will always be important, as will the site of their angry development. Tonight’s show has a rush line; several more screenings are scheduled. Click here for ticket availability.

The gentleman picks up a trumpet, blowing out a work-in-progress tune to the woman standing next to him in the small, cluttered apartment (we can’t hear what the tune is yet, as a string-filled old-school musical score is playing over the scene). Soon, they’ll be sitting on, yes, a park bench, and the vibe between them is decidedly far more sour. The duo will go their separate ways—he’ll keep bopping around Boston, she’ll end up in New York City. But there’s something that suggests Guy, a jazz musician, and Madeline, a waitress and would-be performer, aren’t done with each other just yet. Destiny dictates that the couple will circle back to square one; before that happens, however, there will be unfortunate personal detours, romantic misfires and bad decisions. Oh, and an impromptu musical number in an after-hours T.G.I. Friday’s–style franchise restaurant.

Writer-director Damien Chazelle’s blissful, brilliant debut may bear a superficial resemblance to the work of the mumblecore crowd (he’s an alumni of the same Harvard undergrad film program that gave us the scene’s godfather, Andrew Bujalski). But the mind-set here is less SXSW than a lo-fi version of MGM, with roughshod 16mm scenes of urban slackerdom suddenly morphing into the sort of musical numbers associated with Stanley Donen. (One sequence involving a tap dancer, a jam session and a house party is arguably the most joyous five minutes you’re likely to experience in a theater this year.) Tribeca’s reputation as a maddeningly inconsistent festival—programming-wise, at least—is well deserved, but there’s always one title that comes out of nowhere and blindsides you: The Secret of the Grain, Dead Man’s Shoes, Rize. This is the true gem of 2009; don’t miss it. You can check out showtimes and ticket availability here.

Perhaps it’s the economy, stupid, but a leaner Tribeca Film Festival actually means an improved one. This year’s eighth edition, under way tonight and unspooling through May 3, offers a fraction of the typical number of features: 85, down from a usual 130-plus. This is, in fact, a good thing. Selectivity has resulted in some seriously important work being showcased. And Team Film has its favorites. Tonight, the only film is the (sold-out) gala premiere of Woody Allen’s Whatever Works, due in theaters June 19. Honestly, you’re not missing anything; it makes a misfire like Celebrity look like Vicky Cristina Barcelona. But starting tomorrow, be sure to check out the Frame-Up for your 411 about the day’s strongest pick. Tickets are selling briskly and some shows are already sold out. But there are always rush lines and frantic exchanges out front. However you manage to get in, you won’t be wasting your money; we’ve done the hard work for you. Trust us—and tune in tomorrow.