Even in the backwash of The Skin That I Live In and Lars Von Trier’s banning by the Cannes Film Festival, I’m drawn to a banal observation. When I was a kid my mom would hang the family wash on an outdoor clothesline, and the super-crisp way this made my jeans and T-shirts feel was pure pleasure. Two days ago, after not knowing this wondrous sensation for decades, I re-experienced it after hanging my wash off the patio of my Old Town Cannes abode. Delightful.