It’s the opening day of the 72nd Cannes film festival and all is calm on the promenade. The sky is a warm blue, the sea is smooth as glass and the old men play boules on the patch of sand by the bandstand. The place is quiet, too quiet; it puts the senses on edge. This event, after all, thrives on incident and uproar. It needs to rip back the curtain and snap our eyes open. It needs a film to knock the world off its axis and shake the dead from their graves. After a fashion, that’s what it’s about – to receive.
“This whole thing’s going to end badly,” quips Adam Driver throughout the course of Jim Jarmusch’s self-spoiling, self-hugging The Dead Don’t Die. And while