Black Bush (aka Dave Chappelle) cares about white people. He’s also a funnier, more convincing spokesperson for race relations than his Texan counterpart (when was the last time George W. spiked an administration speech with a good dick [not Cheney] joke?). Though, not certain that fest director Bill Gosden was trying to make a case for impeachment by launching this year’s TNZIFF with Dave Chappelle’s Block Party – part-blockumentary, part-concert feature, and more than just another sprig in the capital-happy impertinence of player-approved clothing lines, grills, toothbrushes, etc. –, the boy nevertheless done good.

Granted, this isn’t the first time a comedian has purposefully worshipped at their own altar (think: Seinfeld, The Bernie Mac Show, Everybody Hates Chris, yada yada yada). But those shows, however singularly brilliant, cradled limp fantasy worlds that spoke with all the gusto of a paycheck. From a birdseye-view, Block Party may look like just another chalkline drawing on the paves of Crooklyn. But the fact that all of this is really happening gives the work a more serrated edge; its nostalgia couldn’t be described as hazardous, because – in an act of triumphant dualism – it beams all those unplaceable feelings into a utilitarian present. Some folks have claimed this as a for-the-New-Yorker by-the-New-Yorker kinda deal, but the vision of urban living on display is so richly formalised that no greencard’s required. Ever the dollarbillsman, Chappelle wanders this global ghetto of his, cheerily exploiting the maxim that black people love to laugh, and that white people love to laugh at themselves. Oh, yeah – Kanye West, Mos Def, Dead Prez, and The Fugees also feature to some extent.—David Levinson