Unabashedly preppy and undeniably idiosyncratic, the films of Whit Stillman crackle with, well, wit, snark, and the occasional touch of venom. Emerging at the forefront of a new crop of American auteurs, Stillman and his works exist in a world in which “wordy” is never an insult. Here, we look back on the ever-articulate, impeccably mannered trilogy which introduced one of the most distinctive voices in independent cinema.
