There is, as anyone who has attended a film festival or repertory cinema screening of a classic foreign film can attest, a kind of laughter that pervades such dark spaces. It is a knowing laughter: signaling the recognition of a joke, more than an involuntary spasm of amusement that a joke might otherwise merit. Polite, and a little forced, it’s the golf-clap of guffaws. Radu Jude, the 40-something Romanian writer-director whose movies have, of late, become fixtures of the festival and art