Director Pablo Trapero's sprawling film Rolling Family, about four, count-em four generations of a squabbling Argentinian family all crammed into an RV for a road trip, is enough to make you nostalgic for that Robin Williams movie. Most of the conventions of storytelling and narrative cohesion have been abandoned in favor of a reality-television style authenticity, dropping us directly into the middle of a boiling lobster pot of family tension, with all the relationship wrinkles and shorthand that you might expect from such a thing. For someone like myself, who enjoys a triple-threat phobia of crowds, family functions and hot, confined spaces, watching the film was like some kind of CIA-honed discomfort that has all the hallmarks of torture, but evades it on technicalities. A certain fluency in Spanish is almost a necessary lubricant when it comes to handling the film's rapid-fire inter-generational squabbling, which starts soon after the opening credits and never stops. Without it, your eyes will be ping-ponging back and forth aggressively, as you struggle to keep track of names and faces while the caravan rolls on.