I don't know what it’s called when you go back and forth between running and fast walking? But that's exactly what I'm doing. I've overslept and it's already 8am. It's early in the real world but here it’s perilously late. The hardcore fans and most enthusiastic photographers are already beginning to descend upon the Palais. They're all whispering the same name. You can almost hear it on the sea breeze. It's Johnny... Johnny Depp.
Last night's American party escapades left me immune to my alarm. My partner in crime was up at 5am but thought I looked tired, so didn't wake me. She should have known better. I'm supposed to look exhausted. Weariness is a badge of honour here. If you’re actually sleeping more than the medically required minimum then something is dreadfully wrong with you. This is Cannes.
With rapid motion and some luck I make it just in time to secure some prime real estate at the very front of the photo call. Panic over I settle in for the four hour wait. I'm sandwiched between some Italian photographers and an elderly French woman who looks like a confused grandmother. Naturally they don't speak English. We communicate through increasingly elaborate hand gestures and facial expressions. Time passes slowly. But it's worth it.
It's a long time to wait just to see someone, but this isn't just anyone. This is one of the most universally adored and effortlessly charismatic actors of our time. Chameleon like performances and a consistently captivating face have placed Johnny Depp at the absolute pinnacle of movie superstardom. Men, women, children, perhaps even some of the more intelligent animals love him. His increasingly eclectic and acclaimed career is enviable, admirable and above all enjoyable.
No other actor could dream of being nominated for a best actor Oscar for playing a drunken Keith Richards impersonating Pirate. Such is the phenomenal success of Captain Jack Sparrow, an unlikely alter ego entirely of Depp's own creation, that he returns to Cannes this year to carry the franchise into its 4th summer blockbuster. With Captain Jack firmly and unashamedly centre stage this time it promises to wipe away the memory of a disappointing third outing. Pirates of The Caribbean: At World's End... the film that felt like it never did.
My own reasons for devotion extend far beyond the role that made Johnny Disney's darling. I will forever adore him for bottling lighting as Hunter S. Thompson's maniacal anti-hero Raoul Duke in 'Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas'. Rarely in human history has an intoxicated man in an awful Hawaiian shirt proved quite so arresting and oddly insightful. It's hard to deny genius that is so ugly and unlikely. Of course, his countless beautiful turns as Tim Burton's meek mannered Goth plaything have also helped cement my passion.
Right now, the excitement is starting to build as the Captain's arrival draws near. Nervous fangirls and photographers clamber up walls and perch over the top of metal fences. All desperate for the best possible glimpse when the crucial moment comes. Behind me, rows of envious camera crews hastily mount ladders in an urgent competition for height and the right angle. Three perilous feet above my head, anxious TV Camera's and telescopic photographer lenses jostle awkwardly for position. The mid-morning sun continues to rise, slowly baking the journalists and their heavy black technology.
The appointed time for the photo call comes and goes. Nervous whispers start. Has the waiting crowd grown too big, too obviously desperate. Has our timid hero slunk through some underground entrance or a secluded backdoor. Painful minutes eek by for nearly an hour. Has all that anticipation fizzled out in the furnace strength heat? Was it just too good to be true. The masses wait and sweat with impatience. Poised, for disappointment.
It begins with a solitary high pitched scream. Was it a hysterical teenager or a hardened media pro? It's impossible to say. Who screamed is a mystery, but why they did is obvious. He's here.
There is no car. No tinted windows. No police escort. The biggest film star on the planet, is walking. He is strolling down the sun-cracked concrete road, smiling beneath a beige trilby hat. Accompanied only by a surly grey haired bodyguard.
The startled crowd springs to life, brandishing camera's and outstretched hands. His entire route is instantly flanked by frantic hordes, reaching down, straining to touch him. He sees them through his purple tinted glasses and reaches back up to them with a playful grin. Taking each trembling hand in turn he gives them all a soft squeeze. Like happy ice cream the young fans melt with delight.
Near the Palais steps a few more ambitious devotees hold out pens, begging for autographs. But as the magnanimous movie star tries to take one, his own bodyguard slaps his hand away, giving him a firm shove towards the stairs for good measure. It's a bizarre sight to see a global superstar scolded like a naughty child who knows he's not allowed to play yet. Without choice he strides up the stairs, leaving the fans with a forlorn fluttering wave.
At the peak of the stairs, he stands perfectly still for a single moment. The photographers snap and flash. The crowd still screams. A loose dark scarf and some beaded necklaces hang round his neck.
He's wearing a striped shirt beneath an immaculate white waistcoat with a polka dot handkerchief nestled in its pocket. Unnecessary suspender straps droop from his khaki trousers. A well crafted goatee can't hide the flawless symmetry of his face. A little thicker than in its youth, but no less pleasing.
And then he's gone. Swept along with the rest of the cast. A sun kissed Penelope Cruz and a smart suited Geoffrey Rush. They head towards the press conference followed by a mad scramble of journalists. I fight my own way inside and adopt a carefully calculated position next to a TV monitor close to the lobby door. With the certain knowledge that they will have to pass me on their escape route to the service elevator. I bide my time and listen.
After half an hour the press conference ends with a rush of applause and my own adrenalin. Forget the well chosen words and well placed questions. This is the momentous moment. The meeting.
Johnny Depp walks towards me unhurried by his own entourage, who now have no excuse for haste. Someone hands him a pen. He stops. Charming his way along a small crowd towards me. I hold out some photographs and he obliges with a couple of meaningful squiggles and a good natured smile. I thank him and say something complimentary. He looks at me for a second with a benign expression and then walks away in the direction of a bigger throng of fans. It's such a brief flash of personal contact, but at least I'm left holding the frameworthy evidence of the encounter in my hands.
Flushed with success and the sweltering heat I head to the American Pavilion to celebrate with my now customary Panini and chilled fruit water. A proud mother and her son join me at my table. They're from Texas and the boy has a short film in the festival. I'm stunned to learn that the 'boy' really is only in high school. He looks older than me in a rugged all-American way. I feel a slight twinge of envy for his pubescent filmmaking accomplishments. They seem more jealous that I've just seen Johnny Depp. Desire is a strange beast.
After lunch, as the afternoon drags on, I settle into the shaded conference room. In walks a real life hero, ironically accompanied by TV's Hercules (Kevin Sorbo) in a purple paisley shirt. She has a mane of bottle blonde hair and a shiny sun soaked complexion splashed with freckles. Our hero has a perfect pearl smile and an imposingly athletic frame. She is pretty but instantly memorable for another reason. Her name is Bethany Hamilton.
When she was 13 years old, surfer Bethany was the victim of a horrific shark attack. Against all odds, she survived, but lost her left arm. Remarkably undeterred she returned to the water within a month. Less than a year later she was a surfing champion. She turned pro a few years later and never looked back. Her autobiographical bestselling book 'Soul Surfer' has now spawned an inspirational movie and this appearance at Cannes.
It's humbling. To be in the presence of something that goes so far beyond the film industry. Something greater. It throws today's hysteria and my brief pang of self doubt into sharp unflattering contrast. We call lots of things 'inspiring'. A good piece of music. A well written story. But to be in the presence of a life lived with humour, grace and joy; truly merits that distinction. It fills us with regret that we're not better, but the hope that we can be.
When I ask her who she's inspired by, she talks to me about other extraordinary people she's encountered. Unique people who overcame adversity, cruel fate and disability. I feel, guilty. Guilty for the soft luxuries of my own existence and the trivial concerns that pre-occupy me. It won't last, but it's a rare thing, genuine perspective. How remarkably unlikely to have found that here, of all places, in Cannes.
The rest of the day passes in insignificance. A tropical thunder shower traps everyone in ill equipped summer clothes under the flimsy pavilion canapé. I feel sorry for all the people drowned in black tie on their way to the Pirates premiere. I talk to the usual array of producers and writers. I listen to good, bad and awful ideas for films. When the flood finally finishes, I head back to the apartment, with a bag full of groceries and a head full of renewed ambitions.
Russ Nelson 14th May 2011
Quote Of The Day:
"I think the thing to do is enjoy the ride while you're on it."
- Johnny Depp on Life.
Thursday 26 May 2011
Wednesday 25 May 2011
Cannes Diary Day: 3
My first morning mouthful of chocolate tastes magnificent. It has taken four days for me to be seduced by a butter baked breakfast treat. The first day of painful fatigue and grey weather requires comfort eating. Also in my defence the American pavilion won’t make me a Panini at least until the sun is properly up. I can’t blame them; it’s too early to function properly.
I lack the motivation to drag myself into a screening room so I slouch back in my seat with half a croissant in my mouth. Besides me the film students are being given a lecture from someone who works in the high end hospitality industry. He has drooping hair and a voice that sounds like a long sigh. He tells them how special ‘special days’ are and the importance of hotel loyalty. I briefly consider working in the perk filled luxury lifestyle business. But it feels too much like being the audience for someone else’s spectacular life.
I kill time, eat more pastries and tell anyone who asks just how good a time I’ve been having. Eventually there’s no one left to talk to and nothing left to eat so I go looking for something else to do. In front of the Palais a funny thing happens. I spot someone walking toward me who looks exactly like an old friend from America. The resemblance is uncanny. I wonder, have I found her evil French twin? Such a discovery would put a whole different slant on this trip. I’m naturally cautious. But there’s no need to panic, it actually is her.
My mind does boggle a little with the sheer coincidence. I immediately decide to give up on the next batch of screenings and we catch up on life through a few drinks and a well made chicken lasagne lunch. A pair of busking musicians soundtrack our reunion with quintessentially French songs. Jaunty tunes with plenty of flair on the accordion. It's one of those rare moments when life lives up to the expectations movies have inflicted on me.
We're briefly befriended by an elderly Irish couple. They're on holiday for the rest of their lives, but it’s time to for me to get back to business. So I make our friendly excuses and we leave. Heading back towards the Palais we bump into Diane Kruger and Joshua Jackson. As a couple they seem oddly juxtaposed; a 90 American teen heartthrob and a seriously dramatic European actress. But watching them stroll hand in hand the love is enviably real.
I leave my friend outside a party for a local TV channel and I return to my second home at the American pavilion. Famke Janssen is giving a talk about becoming a director. She has the improbably slender frame of a former model and a pretty face with hard edges. Her hair is jet black and her fingernails match. She says it's for her next film. She's playing an evil witch, but without scary facial prosthetics it just looks a little emo. She's serious, passionate and older than I thought.
I debate about leaving before the next talk on independent film distribution. But in the end it's too much work to leave and the panel have already arrived. Mild mannered debates start about video on demand and online marketing strategies. The fresh faced Facebook rep keeps referring to popular new Facebook apps that nobody in the audience knew existed. I start to wonder if he's just making them up as he goes along to see what people like the sound of most. Eventually there's nothing left to talk about, but I pass around a wallet's worth of business cards before I go.
It's finally time to watch another film and I assess my options. I could play it safe, but I'm unable to resist the allure of something exotic. 3D Sex and Zen is infamous for breaking Avatar's box office record in China and for being the world's first adventure in 3D erotica. Intellectual and animal curiosity gets the better of me so I join the growing queue.
A frazzled looking older woman next to me introduces herself as a famous French actress. She tells me she's won awards but I've never heard of them or her. I reassure myself that she has a festival pass and speaks basic English so she can't be too deranged. I take my seat near the front, accompanied by my award winning French stalker.
The cast and director stand up and introduce the film then sit down next to us. The film is exactly two hours long which seems excessive. It starts and the first hour is pretty much what I expected bawdy slapstick style comedy. There a strange 70s throwback vibe with all the classic Porno clichés tweaked for historical period china. Replace a cable repair man with the servant who pushes the old fashioned coal cart and you get the idea.
It's intentionally funny and mostly entertaining. The sex scenes quickly get monotonous and it's palpably awkward to watch them with the cast and 300 mainstream industry professionals sweating alongside you.
It's all going okay until the start of the second hour. Without warning the film flips a switch from silly to psychotic. With absolutely no excuse the film starts a repugnant descent into extreme graphic violence and torture porn. I can't even write of the exact horrors I have to endure because merely uttering them to you may damage you irrevocably.
Other people start to leave but I'm trapped alongside the people responsible for this nightmare. If this is what they watch for entertainment god knows what they'll do to me if I walk out on it. I fight my powerful professional instincts to run away and vomit. Although under normal circumstances that would have been the only sensible response. I start to regret that I have eyes and ears that work.
The film finally ends and I politely decline an invite to a launch party with the cast and crew. I'm careful not to make any sudden moves as I escape. I abandon my French stalker while she's busy distracting them with conversation. This could be a noble act of self sacrifice but I suspect she's just angling for a part in the sequel. She’s never seen again and the imaginary film industry morns a tragic loss.
Traumatised and nauseous I meet up with my re-discovered American friend for dinner. We search for a place to eat for over half an hour, mostly because I need fresh air and counselling to revive my appetite. I settle in the end for the healing power of pasta and conversation. I survive but just barely.
After I’m sufficiently recovered we walk back to the Palais. On the way we pass by a well known Danish actor. I decide it's best not to say hello because he's fall down drunk. It's probably not fair to burden someone who can barely stand with the added pressure of small talk. He narrowly avoids sidewalks and expensive shop windows with the help of some friends. I just hope he was celebrating good news.
Invigorated by a change of clothes and the excitement of my first official Cannes Party I return encore une fois to the American pavilion. Director John Cameron Mitchell (rabbit hole, hedwig, shortbus) is on DJ duty and it's a masterful display. He's clearly crafted a perfect mix tape of loveable old classics and obscure pop punk. Even the queue for drinks tokens is having a discrete boogie.
It's tricky to fly solo for too long and I start chatting with a friendly Serbian sales agent. We instantly adopt each other as de facto wingmen. He bemoans the fact that the UK can't handle Serbian cinema and that his last film about a gang who make snuff porn movies probably won't get a UK theatrical release. I can only agree. I meet some Australian producers, a Flemish actor and the usual array of friendly film students and Americans.
A hideously drunk Ukrainian woman, clutching a half devoured vodka bottle in her claw, tells me I need to be "more human". I think it’s safe to say that sanity may have been lost in Smirnoff soaked translation. But the night perks up again when I meet someone who has a custom made iPod nano on his wrist disguised as a watch. I'm jealous and it makes me want to live in the future.
John C. Reilly and some of the cast of "We Need To Talk About Kevin" show up. There are also a couple of guys dressed as astronauts in space suites and a few transvestites with Halloween face paint on. It's not entirely clear if they're all part of the official entertainment or not. Either way it's past 2am and the party is officially 'over'. I'm done.
The walk back to the flat feels longer than ever before and I have to get up early to hopefully meet Johnny Depp. I pass out in my clothes, dreaming of pirates.
Russ Nelson 13th May 2011
Quote of The Day:
“My reaction to porn films is as follows: After the first ten minutes, I want to go home and screw. After the first 20 minutes, I never want to screw again as long as I live.”
Erica Jong, Playboy Magazine, September 1975
I lack the motivation to drag myself into a screening room so I slouch back in my seat with half a croissant in my mouth. Besides me the film students are being given a lecture from someone who works in the high end hospitality industry. He has drooping hair and a voice that sounds like a long sigh. He tells them how special ‘special days’ are and the importance of hotel loyalty. I briefly consider working in the perk filled luxury lifestyle business. But it feels too much like being the audience for someone else’s spectacular life.
I kill time, eat more pastries and tell anyone who asks just how good a time I’ve been having. Eventually there’s no one left to talk to and nothing left to eat so I go looking for something else to do. In front of the Palais a funny thing happens. I spot someone walking toward me who looks exactly like an old friend from America. The resemblance is uncanny. I wonder, have I found her evil French twin? Such a discovery would put a whole different slant on this trip. I’m naturally cautious. But there’s no need to panic, it actually is her.
My mind does boggle a little with the sheer coincidence. I immediately decide to give up on the next batch of screenings and we catch up on life through a few drinks and a well made chicken lasagne lunch. A pair of busking musicians soundtrack our reunion with quintessentially French songs. Jaunty tunes with plenty of flair on the accordion. It's one of those rare moments when life lives up to the expectations movies have inflicted on me.
We're briefly befriended by an elderly Irish couple. They're on holiday for the rest of their lives, but it’s time to for me to get back to business. So I make our friendly excuses and we leave. Heading back towards the Palais we bump into Diane Kruger and Joshua Jackson. As a couple they seem oddly juxtaposed; a 90 American teen heartthrob and a seriously dramatic European actress. But watching them stroll hand in hand the love is enviably real.
I leave my friend outside a party for a local TV channel and I return to my second home at the American pavilion. Famke Janssen is giving a talk about becoming a director. She has the improbably slender frame of a former model and a pretty face with hard edges. Her hair is jet black and her fingernails match. She says it's for her next film. She's playing an evil witch, but without scary facial prosthetics it just looks a little emo. She's serious, passionate and older than I thought.
I debate about leaving before the next talk on independent film distribution. But in the end it's too much work to leave and the panel have already arrived. Mild mannered debates start about video on demand and online marketing strategies. The fresh faced Facebook rep keeps referring to popular new Facebook apps that nobody in the audience knew existed. I start to wonder if he's just making them up as he goes along to see what people like the sound of most. Eventually there's nothing left to talk about, but I pass around a wallet's worth of business cards before I go.
It's finally time to watch another film and I assess my options. I could play it safe, but I'm unable to resist the allure of something exotic. 3D Sex and Zen is infamous for breaking Avatar's box office record in China and for being the world's first adventure in 3D erotica. Intellectual and animal curiosity gets the better of me so I join the growing queue.
A frazzled looking older woman next to me introduces herself as a famous French actress. She tells me she's won awards but I've never heard of them or her. I reassure myself that she has a festival pass and speaks basic English so she can't be too deranged. I take my seat near the front, accompanied by my award winning French stalker.
The cast and director stand up and introduce the film then sit down next to us. The film is exactly two hours long which seems excessive. It starts and the first hour is pretty much what I expected bawdy slapstick style comedy. There a strange 70s throwback vibe with all the classic Porno clichés tweaked for historical period china. Replace a cable repair man with the servant who pushes the old fashioned coal cart and you get the idea.
It's intentionally funny and mostly entertaining. The sex scenes quickly get monotonous and it's palpably awkward to watch them with the cast and 300 mainstream industry professionals sweating alongside you.
It's all going okay until the start of the second hour. Without warning the film flips a switch from silly to psychotic. With absolutely no excuse the film starts a repugnant descent into extreme graphic violence and torture porn. I can't even write of the exact horrors I have to endure because merely uttering them to you may damage you irrevocably.
Other people start to leave but I'm trapped alongside the people responsible for this nightmare. If this is what they watch for entertainment god knows what they'll do to me if I walk out on it. I fight my powerful professional instincts to run away and vomit. Although under normal circumstances that would have been the only sensible response. I start to regret that I have eyes and ears that work.
The film finally ends and I politely decline an invite to a launch party with the cast and crew. I'm careful not to make any sudden moves as I escape. I abandon my French stalker while she's busy distracting them with conversation. This could be a noble act of self sacrifice but I suspect she's just angling for a part in the sequel. She’s never seen again and the imaginary film industry morns a tragic loss.
Traumatised and nauseous I meet up with my re-discovered American friend for dinner. We search for a place to eat for over half an hour, mostly because I need fresh air and counselling to revive my appetite. I settle in the end for the healing power of pasta and conversation. I survive but just barely.
After I’m sufficiently recovered we walk back to the Palais. On the way we pass by a well known Danish actor. I decide it's best not to say hello because he's fall down drunk. It's probably not fair to burden someone who can barely stand with the added pressure of small talk. He narrowly avoids sidewalks and expensive shop windows with the help of some friends. I just hope he was celebrating good news.
Invigorated by a change of clothes and the excitement of my first official Cannes Party I return encore une fois to the American pavilion. Director John Cameron Mitchell (rabbit hole, hedwig, shortbus) is on DJ duty and it's a masterful display. He's clearly crafted a perfect mix tape of loveable old classics and obscure pop punk. Even the queue for drinks tokens is having a discrete boogie.
It's tricky to fly solo for too long and I start chatting with a friendly Serbian sales agent. We instantly adopt each other as de facto wingmen. He bemoans the fact that the UK can't handle Serbian cinema and that his last film about a gang who make snuff porn movies probably won't get a UK theatrical release. I can only agree. I meet some Australian producers, a Flemish actor and the usual array of friendly film students and Americans.
A hideously drunk Ukrainian woman, clutching a half devoured vodka bottle in her claw, tells me I need to be "more human". I think it’s safe to say that sanity may have been lost in Smirnoff soaked translation. But the night perks up again when I meet someone who has a custom made iPod nano on his wrist disguised as a watch. I'm jealous and it makes me want to live in the future.
John C. Reilly and some of the cast of "We Need To Talk About Kevin" show up. There are also a couple of guys dressed as astronauts in space suites and a few transvestites with Halloween face paint on. It's not entirely clear if they're all part of the official entertainment or not. Either way it's past 2am and the party is officially 'over'. I'm done.
The walk back to the flat feels longer than ever before and I have to get up early to hopefully meet Johnny Depp. I pass out in my clothes, dreaming of pirates.
Russ Nelson 13th May 2011
Quote of The Day:
“My reaction to porn films is as follows: After the first ten minutes, I want to go home and screw. After the first 20 minutes, I never want to screw again as long as I live.”
Erica Jong, Playboy Magazine, September 1975
Saturday 14 May 2011
Cannes Diary Day: 2
Without any assistance, I wake up. It’s a good sign. I’m already acclimatised and hardwired for early action. I’m dressed and writing by 6.30am. By 8am I’m logged onto the festival online service reserving a ticket for tonight’s red carpet premiere of “We Need To Talk About Kevin”. It’s the only British film in the 20 movie shortlist for the prestigious Palm D’Or prize. I tell myself it’s my patriotic duty to show my support, but really I’m just hungry for some red carpet glamour. I won’t have to wait long.
I leave quickly. I can’t help but notice that the tiny lift makes unhealthy mechanical groans whether it’s going up or down. But I’m equally concerned about the health risks of climbing 6 flights of stairs 6 times a day. I survive the creaking descent and I stroll down to the festival centre with a shiny ticket in hand.
This morning I’m going to my first screening in the Theatre Lumiere. It’s the crown jewel of the Palais Des Festivals, a 2,300 seat monument to the love of film. It’s where every major premiere in the festival takes place. It’s a huge cavernous space, where applauses thunders but silence can be even more deafening.
I’m approached by a passing TV crew outside the giant red stairway that leads up to the cinema doors. I suspect they’ve been lured in by my Cannes hat. At least it makes me look enthusiastic. I’m already busy preparing my finest French gibberish when they ask me if I speak English. They’re relieved to find that I do. They’re from the Ukraine and clearly happy to finally be talking at least a second language. They interview me about this film and the festival. I try to give them my best spiel. I know what they want. I try to drop in all the handy sound bites that will keep their editor happy.
The Ukrainians ask if it will be possible to go inside the cinema and film some of the movie. I explain that they won’t be allowed to do that. It’s a nice feeling once again. To be reassured that you have superior knowledge, even if it only amounts to old fashioned common sense. They thank me again and head off aimlessly.
There’s a noticeable lack of organised queuing. I climb on top of a nearby concrete bollard to more accurately assess the lie of the land. The mob is excited but patient. They swarm casually around the security checkpoints as the doors finally open. I pass through without a hitch and amble up the famous red stairs. It would be more exciting if I could watch myself do it. But in the moment it’s hard to imagine I’m walking in the footsteps of my heroes. It’s just a lot of stairs.
Inside I climb even more stairs before finally stepping into the gargantuan auditorium. It has the airy high ceiling feel of a sports arena. There’s no hint of the cramped cosy comfort of a typical cinema. Around me, quiet debates rage about the etiquette of seat saving. Can one French woman and a magazine really be ‘saving’ four seats? The lights dim and the answer becomes irrelevant.
The film is called Sleeping Beauty. It stars Emily Browning who looks like a flawless and diminutive doll. By its on admission it’s an erotic drama and it’s exactly what I expected. The beautiful cinematography and all the promise of the trailer can’t hide the fact that it’s essentially depressed porn. Sullen dialogue frequently punctuated by casual full frontal nudity. There’s little plot and the film finally ends literally with a whimper not a bang. The lights come back on and there’s a smattering of token gesture applause. It’s not immediately clear if it’s for the film or the triumphant return of the lights.
I pay my first visit to the British pavilion and find that contrary to rumour it’s spacious. In fact it’s much bigger than the Americans’ place. I can even walk right out onto the sand on the beach behind. I sit down and soak in the sun’s UV goodness for a few minutes, safe in the knowledge I’m on sovereign soil. I feel relaxed. But, I’m already addicted to the Panini and chatty film students so in the end I head back to the American tent for lunch. In what I have now decided will be a daily ritual.
I sit in the sun since shade is premium real estate when it’s so relentlessly hot. I order a couple of fruit rouge flavoured waters and the Panini du jour. It’s busy and it’s not long before I’m joined at my table by an out of work French producer from Paris. At first we concentrate on our respective iPads but sure enough eventually when our technology is rendered too hot to hold by the baking midday sun we resort to conversation. We trade war stories and business cards. I’m getting really good at swapping cards. I’m finding the fact I have a few different ones seems to impress people. More is always more in this town.
Eventually the French producer abandons me to continue her search for a job. I call my girlfriend on her lunch break and let her know how it’s all going. She chastises me because when I say I’m eating some Yoghurt, I pronounce it the American way. It can’t be helped; linguistic osmosis is unavoidable. Even so, I’m lucky she still loves me.
I drift back to the apartment and watch videos from the Kung Fu Panda 2 photo call taken by my partner in crime. Jack Black looks slim and spherical at the same time. Dustin Hoffman looks exactly the same as he has done for at least two decades and the camera continues to adore Angelina Jolie’s face.
Refreshed and entertained I head back down to pick up my ticket for tonight’s red carpet. Disaster strikes suddenly. I arrive at a deserted ticket reception. It’s haunted by one person who tells me my reservation was just cancelled because I hadn’t picked it up by 4.30pm and they shut at 5pm. I lament the French work ethic and my earlier lack of urgency.
Utterly dejected I start to wander listlessly down the waterfront. I can’t believe it looks like being on Ukrainian television will turn out to be the highlight of my day. Despondent and ticketless I face the stark prospect of a wasted lonely night. Has failure finally found me in France?
I remember hearing that Jessie J is performing a concert for Le Grand Journal down on the beach. It’s a nightly French TV show and just about the only option for adventure I have left. At least it’s far away from the Palais and any reminders of my misfortune. I stride out towards the opposite end of the beach with purpose but not much hope.
It’s not hard to find the well lit open air stage. It beams out brightly, competing with the background sunset. From a distance I can see that the stage seems to be winning at least the attention of a small huddled crowd. As I approach to pick my best vantage point, I notice a small silver gated entrance nearby. I investigate for a moment to see what’s going on and a silver luxury car pulls up alongside. A woman steps out in a priceless white evening gown. It’s Jane Fonda. Her hair is perfectly feathered and her makeup is practically a time machine.
Intrigued I stay put. Then without warning, it happens. Grey wispy hair. Black thick rimmed glasses. It’s Woody Allen. He walks nervously out onto the street. Instantly someone else asks him for an autograph and he obliges. Instinct kicks in. Without hesitation I hold out an autograph book too. He signs while I praise his new film which I haven’t actually seen. I tell him it’s an honour to meet him and he retreats into a waiting car with tinted windows. It’s magic.
I’m in a state of euphoria as Jessie J begins serenading me. My evening now transformed from tragic to triumphant. I’m still grinning after her final warble when haute couture designer Jean-Paul Gautier walks out. He’s a surprisingly jolly French fashion icon. We’re both obviously having good nights and we share a happy photo together to celebrate.
I decide to quit while I’m ahead and go back to the flat. It’s tough going though as the evening floodgates are open and the street is thick with people. Passing by a long stretch of glitzy red carpet movement become impossible. I’m trapped; pinned down by pedestrians next to the entrance for a press pen filled with TV camera crews and well dressed journalists.
I step inside the press pen to let a clumsy cameraman past and security swoops in, closing the gate behind me. I am most definitely not supposed to be here. I don’t have the right credentials. I don’t even look the part. But this is too good an opportunity to miss. I’m an accidental hero.
I have to think fast, this is a delicate predicament. I’m not even going to be able to talk my way out of it if things go wrong. I sidle up to some print journalists with my dictaphone quickly in hand. I make an obvious show of adjusting the settings. I try to look busy, bored and impatient. I blend in nicely. Away from the red carpet burly suited security guards chase away passersby who leer too close or for too long. This is the Calvin Klein VIP party and they clearly don’t want random lurkers. I may be in some peril.
I’m saved by famous faces. Some gorgeous models arrive and I become totally invisible and safe. Uma Thurman arrives, switching her daytime white dress for an afterhours little black number. Roasrio Dawson and Disney diva Vanessa Hudgens arrive together and confess they don’t know French but they do like nice clothes. When Emily Browning arrives I try to forget that I spent my morning watching her undress. Jamie Lynn Sigler talks about Tony Soprano while nameless models arrive fashionably late.
The red carpet slowly dies and I’m not well dressed enough to follow other people further into the party. But I’ve had my fill of high end fashion and famous face, so I say my goodbyes and leave the models to vogue themselves to sleep.
I randomly pass Jonathan Ross on the street. He looks a little like a well dressed Spanish conquistador these days, with flowing hair and an elaborate beard. Even so, he reminds me of home. He’s talking on the phone so instead of saying hello I just give him a quick salute. I have no idea why either to be honest. But it happened. My only excuse is bleary eyed patriotism.
When I finally make it as far as the Palais, “We need to talk about Kevin” has just finished. Tilda Swinton shuffles past looking like she might really be the white witch from Narnia. John C. Reilly follows behind her and I tell him I enjoyed the film. Of course I never saw it, but I certainly enjoyed not seeing it...
Russ Nelson – 12th May 2011
Quote of the Day:
"I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying." - Woody Allen
I leave quickly. I can’t help but notice that the tiny lift makes unhealthy mechanical groans whether it’s going up or down. But I’m equally concerned about the health risks of climbing 6 flights of stairs 6 times a day. I survive the creaking descent and I stroll down to the festival centre with a shiny ticket in hand.
This morning I’m going to my first screening in the Theatre Lumiere. It’s the crown jewel of the Palais Des Festivals, a 2,300 seat monument to the love of film. It’s where every major premiere in the festival takes place. It’s a huge cavernous space, where applauses thunders but silence can be even more deafening.
I’m approached by a passing TV crew outside the giant red stairway that leads up to the cinema doors. I suspect they’ve been lured in by my Cannes hat. At least it makes me look enthusiastic. I’m already busy preparing my finest French gibberish when they ask me if I speak English. They’re relieved to find that I do. They’re from the Ukraine and clearly happy to finally be talking at least a second language. They interview me about this film and the festival. I try to give them my best spiel. I know what they want. I try to drop in all the handy sound bites that will keep their editor happy.
The Ukrainians ask if it will be possible to go inside the cinema and film some of the movie. I explain that they won’t be allowed to do that. It’s a nice feeling once again. To be reassured that you have superior knowledge, even if it only amounts to old fashioned common sense. They thank me again and head off aimlessly.
There’s a noticeable lack of organised queuing. I climb on top of a nearby concrete bollard to more accurately assess the lie of the land. The mob is excited but patient. They swarm casually around the security checkpoints as the doors finally open. I pass through without a hitch and amble up the famous red stairs. It would be more exciting if I could watch myself do it. But in the moment it’s hard to imagine I’m walking in the footsteps of my heroes. It’s just a lot of stairs.
Inside I climb even more stairs before finally stepping into the gargantuan auditorium. It has the airy high ceiling feel of a sports arena. There’s no hint of the cramped cosy comfort of a typical cinema. Around me, quiet debates rage about the etiquette of seat saving. Can one French woman and a magazine really be ‘saving’ four seats? The lights dim and the answer becomes irrelevant.
The film is called Sleeping Beauty. It stars Emily Browning who looks like a flawless and diminutive doll. By its on admission it’s an erotic drama and it’s exactly what I expected. The beautiful cinematography and all the promise of the trailer can’t hide the fact that it’s essentially depressed porn. Sullen dialogue frequently punctuated by casual full frontal nudity. There’s little plot and the film finally ends literally with a whimper not a bang. The lights come back on and there’s a smattering of token gesture applause. It’s not immediately clear if it’s for the film or the triumphant return of the lights.
I pay my first visit to the British pavilion and find that contrary to rumour it’s spacious. In fact it’s much bigger than the Americans’ place. I can even walk right out onto the sand on the beach behind. I sit down and soak in the sun’s UV goodness for a few minutes, safe in the knowledge I’m on sovereign soil. I feel relaxed. But, I’m already addicted to the Panini and chatty film students so in the end I head back to the American tent for lunch. In what I have now decided will be a daily ritual.
I sit in the sun since shade is premium real estate when it’s so relentlessly hot. I order a couple of fruit rouge flavoured waters and the Panini du jour. It’s busy and it’s not long before I’m joined at my table by an out of work French producer from Paris. At first we concentrate on our respective iPads but sure enough eventually when our technology is rendered too hot to hold by the baking midday sun we resort to conversation. We trade war stories and business cards. I’m getting really good at swapping cards. I’m finding the fact I have a few different ones seems to impress people. More is always more in this town.
Eventually the French producer abandons me to continue her search for a job. I call my girlfriend on her lunch break and let her know how it’s all going. She chastises me because when I say I’m eating some Yoghurt, I pronounce it the American way. It can’t be helped; linguistic osmosis is unavoidable. Even so, I’m lucky she still loves me.
I drift back to the apartment and watch videos from the Kung Fu Panda 2 photo call taken by my partner in crime. Jack Black looks slim and spherical at the same time. Dustin Hoffman looks exactly the same as he has done for at least two decades and the camera continues to adore Angelina Jolie’s face.
Refreshed and entertained I head back down to pick up my ticket for tonight’s red carpet. Disaster strikes suddenly. I arrive at a deserted ticket reception. It’s haunted by one person who tells me my reservation was just cancelled because I hadn’t picked it up by 4.30pm and they shut at 5pm. I lament the French work ethic and my earlier lack of urgency.
Utterly dejected I start to wander listlessly down the waterfront. I can’t believe it looks like being on Ukrainian television will turn out to be the highlight of my day. Despondent and ticketless I face the stark prospect of a wasted lonely night. Has failure finally found me in France?
I remember hearing that Jessie J is performing a concert for Le Grand Journal down on the beach. It’s a nightly French TV show and just about the only option for adventure I have left. At least it’s far away from the Palais and any reminders of my misfortune. I stride out towards the opposite end of the beach with purpose but not much hope.
It’s not hard to find the well lit open air stage. It beams out brightly, competing with the background sunset. From a distance I can see that the stage seems to be winning at least the attention of a small huddled crowd. As I approach to pick my best vantage point, I notice a small silver gated entrance nearby. I investigate for a moment to see what’s going on and a silver luxury car pulls up alongside. A woman steps out in a priceless white evening gown. It’s Jane Fonda. Her hair is perfectly feathered and her makeup is practically a time machine.
Intrigued I stay put. Then without warning, it happens. Grey wispy hair. Black thick rimmed glasses. It’s Woody Allen. He walks nervously out onto the street. Instantly someone else asks him for an autograph and he obliges. Instinct kicks in. Without hesitation I hold out an autograph book too. He signs while I praise his new film which I haven’t actually seen. I tell him it’s an honour to meet him and he retreats into a waiting car with tinted windows. It’s magic.
I’m in a state of euphoria as Jessie J begins serenading me. My evening now transformed from tragic to triumphant. I’m still grinning after her final warble when haute couture designer Jean-Paul Gautier walks out. He’s a surprisingly jolly French fashion icon. We’re both obviously having good nights and we share a happy photo together to celebrate.
I decide to quit while I’m ahead and go back to the flat. It’s tough going though as the evening floodgates are open and the street is thick with people. Passing by a long stretch of glitzy red carpet movement become impossible. I’m trapped; pinned down by pedestrians next to the entrance for a press pen filled with TV camera crews and well dressed journalists.
I step inside the press pen to let a clumsy cameraman past and security swoops in, closing the gate behind me. I am most definitely not supposed to be here. I don’t have the right credentials. I don’t even look the part. But this is too good an opportunity to miss. I’m an accidental hero.
I have to think fast, this is a delicate predicament. I’m not even going to be able to talk my way out of it if things go wrong. I sidle up to some print journalists with my dictaphone quickly in hand. I make an obvious show of adjusting the settings. I try to look busy, bored and impatient. I blend in nicely. Away from the red carpet burly suited security guards chase away passersby who leer too close or for too long. This is the Calvin Klein VIP party and they clearly don’t want random lurkers. I may be in some peril.
I’m saved by famous faces. Some gorgeous models arrive and I become totally invisible and safe. Uma Thurman arrives, switching her daytime white dress for an afterhours little black number. Roasrio Dawson and Disney diva Vanessa Hudgens arrive together and confess they don’t know French but they do like nice clothes. When Emily Browning arrives I try to forget that I spent my morning watching her undress. Jamie Lynn Sigler talks about Tony Soprano while nameless models arrive fashionably late.
The red carpet slowly dies and I’m not well dressed enough to follow other people further into the party. But I’ve had my fill of high end fashion and famous face, so I say my goodbyes and leave the models to vogue themselves to sleep.
I randomly pass Jonathan Ross on the street. He looks a little like a well dressed Spanish conquistador these days, with flowing hair and an elaborate beard. Even so, he reminds me of home. He’s talking on the phone so instead of saying hello I just give him a quick salute. I have no idea why either to be honest. But it happened. My only excuse is bleary eyed patriotism.
When I finally make it as far as the Palais, “We need to talk about Kevin” has just finished. Tilda Swinton shuffles past looking like she might really be the white witch from Narnia. John C. Reilly follows behind her and I tell him I enjoyed the film. Of course I never saw it, but I certainly enjoyed not seeing it...
Russ Nelson – 12th May 2011
Quote of the Day:
"I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying." - Woody Allen
Cannes Diary Day: 1
I woke up this morning to the sound of War. More specifically, Edwin Starr’s seminal pop classic ‘War’ on my iPod alarm clock. It’s an appropriately energising musical selection. The apartment is abundantly white and full of angles that make it look bigger and smaller than it is depending on where you sit. But I don’t have time to sit. It’s 6am and I have things to do.
I make a bowl of cornflakes disappear and take some photos of the sunrise to test out my new camera. An inspired airport purchase it’s an impressive piece of machinery. The zoom function alone may well prove to be the pinnacle of mankind’s technological achievements. It’s important to have the right tools in a situation like this. When I walk out the door I’m fully armed. I’ve got a digital dictaphone, two cameras, the official festival guidebook and my trusty iPad ‘Paddy’. With a bag full of tricks like that there’s no excuse for failure.
Arriving at the Palais des festivals I swap my first business cards with a short filmmaker from Mauritius. It’s a perfect start, exotic and yet comforting because I seem to know more about what’s happening than he does. The fact I have three different cards with all the matt finish trimmings makes me feel pretty professional too. I bond with a nearby New Yorker and use Paddy to search online to help her find the nearest Apple store. Congrats Apple it doesn’t get any better for you.
Bonding with Americans is clearly the shape of things to come. They speak English with by far the most approachable smiles. Although my atrophied French language skills seem somewhat redundant as nearly everyone I talk to replies in English. Seemingly perplexed as to why I’m bothering to try. At least it allows me to read all the free festival magazines.
Despite their literary generosity, the French have decided to selfishly horde ‘Midnight in Paris’ for themselves, so opening night invitations are rare prey today. But passing by a screening room I notice something’s about to start. Flying blind I head inside and begin my festival for real. I get extremely lucky.
My first Cannes film is memorably magnificent. A British film called Albatross; it’s a seductive comedy drama about a precocious young girl who turns a repressed family’s life upside down. Much like the fictional family I’m already slightly in love with the lead actress after just 20minutes. Halfway through the film I begin to ponder if I’ll be able to find time to go to the second screening of this later in the week. Probably not, but you never forget your first.
Leaving the dark air conditioned comfort of the cinema I head out into the blazing midday sun for the official festival photo calls. It’s my first chance to lay eyes on genuine talent. The floodgates open. In just under 40 minutes I’ve seen Woody Allen, Owen Wilson, Adrien Brody, Rachel McAdams, Faye Dunaway, Uma Thurman and Jude Law. My camera pays for itself instantly with treasured memories.
Woody Allen is petite and elderly. Owen Wilson’s hair has a unique golden tint to it. Faye Dunaway’s face is taut like a well made bed. Adrien Brody has gone native, wearing a little black trilby hat and a little black goatee. Uma Thurman looks beautiful in a motherly way in a tight white summer dress and Jude does not remove his sunglasses.
I watch the press conference for this year’s jury and witness my first contender for highlight of the entire festival. An oddly emotional French journalist stands up and says he has a question for jury president Robert De Niro. He continues. “Mousier De Niro I want to know, did you f**k my wife?” The confused moderator asks him if it’s a joke. He replies “No, for me it’s an important question.” The room doesn’t know how to handle this and neither does anyone official. Eventually De Niro scrunches up his face with his typically quizzical expression and replies. “Well, I don’t think I did...”. Only in France.
Setting out on my own, I finally manage to register at the American pavilion. They seem delighted to have me and my British accent proves inconsequential. I sit at a table for 6 by myself, but not for long. I’m swarmed by cheery film students turned waitresses. I order a couple of bottles of fruit flavoured water and a pesto chicken Panini. The food comes and a few of the film students join me to talk films on their break. We discuss Poltergeist, the history of Native Americans in cinema and Steven Spielberg’s career. It’s welcome company and good conversation. We all swap business cards and part ways.
I make plans to loiter around the American pavilion much more. It seems like the perfect place to mingle and munch hot bread. There are a few familiar faces giving talks and a flamboyant beach party promised for Friday night. Plans are already forming.
While massive crowds crane their necks and climb trees in the quest to glimpse famous faces on the red carpet for the opening night Woody Allen premiere, I make the bold decision to be one of the few people to head inside the abandoned Palais and take my pick of the seats in a deserted screening room. After all this is what I came for, to be part of the real action. The Films.
My second Cannes movie is about a Japanese girl who takes over managing the underachieving boys’ high school baseball team after the former manager who is her best friend becomes seriously ill. It’s full of endearing adolescent stereotypes and has an uplifting tearjerker finale. It’s the kind of stuff that any Disney TV movie would be proud of. My parents would be ‘happy crying’ by now and I have to work hard not to tear up. It’s too dark to see how the two Japanese men, the only others watching with me manage.
I have a hard time escaping and get lost in the international film section for 15 minutes. I eventually emerge, quite accidentally, through the artist’s entrance just in time to see Uma Thurman whisk herself into a waiting car in a white evening gown. A few other members of the jury follow her and I fiercely resist the urge to ask them what they think about De Niro and the Frenchman’s wife.
With no more films to watch, I take my first night time stroll down the main drag. The streets are flooded with people, as scruffy looking tourists and locals mingle with the post premiere crowds in black tie. I’m caught somewhere in the middle in three quarter length khaki chinos and sky blue shirt. I can’t work out whether my weatherworn Cannes festival baseball cap says seasoned pro or American tourist. I resolve to immediately start dressing better at night, to give myself more legitimate prospects of making it through some exclusive doors.
All around me photographers dart about taking photos of any passersby in black tie. Maybe they’re hoping to catch some random celebs by chance, or it could be they’re just trying to turn a brisk trade selling prints online by capturing everyone’s big night.
From a distance the lights and pounding music coming from beach tents appears to be amazing VIP after-parties, but on closer inspection it’s mostly ordinary restaurants and clubs, masquerading as exclusive with the visible addition of a couple of well dressed doormen. Still the knowledge that somewhere in this town something exclusive and memorable is happening at every possible moment is tantalising. I wander around for a while testing my sense of direction. I check where the good restaurants are and where the cheap ones are. No man can ever truly escape his budget.
Back at the flat I devour yesterday’s horde of tinned ravioli, shower and finally talk to my girlfriend back home. Fatigue keeps the conversation short but with any luck she’s reading this now feeling special because I mentioned her. I love you too.
Tomorrow I’m going to my first screening at the Grand Theatre Lumiere for Sleeping Beauty. Sadly it’s not a live action remake of the Disney classic; instead it’s a psycho-sexual drama about an exclusive academy that apparently teaches young girls how to be near comatose playthings for rich old men. There’s a lot of buzz around town about it. Perhaps it’s because of the apparently lush visuals, or maybe it just seems a more relevant story in a place like this.
Russ Nelson 11th May 2011
Quote of the day: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro"
Hunter S. Thompson -Rolling Stone Feb 28, 1974
I make a bowl of cornflakes disappear and take some photos of the sunrise to test out my new camera. An inspired airport purchase it’s an impressive piece of machinery. The zoom function alone may well prove to be the pinnacle of mankind’s technological achievements. It’s important to have the right tools in a situation like this. When I walk out the door I’m fully armed. I’ve got a digital dictaphone, two cameras, the official festival guidebook and my trusty iPad ‘Paddy’. With a bag full of tricks like that there’s no excuse for failure.
Arriving at the Palais des festivals I swap my first business cards with a short filmmaker from Mauritius. It’s a perfect start, exotic and yet comforting because I seem to know more about what’s happening than he does. The fact I have three different cards with all the matt finish trimmings makes me feel pretty professional too. I bond with a nearby New Yorker and use Paddy to search online to help her find the nearest Apple store. Congrats Apple it doesn’t get any better for you.
Bonding with Americans is clearly the shape of things to come. They speak English with by far the most approachable smiles. Although my atrophied French language skills seem somewhat redundant as nearly everyone I talk to replies in English. Seemingly perplexed as to why I’m bothering to try. At least it allows me to read all the free festival magazines.
Despite their literary generosity, the French have decided to selfishly horde ‘Midnight in Paris’ for themselves, so opening night invitations are rare prey today. But passing by a screening room I notice something’s about to start. Flying blind I head inside and begin my festival for real. I get extremely lucky.
My first Cannes film is memorably magnificent. A British film called Albatross; it’s a seductive comedy drama about a precocious young girl who turns a repressed family’s life upside down. Much like the fictional family I’m already slightly in love with the lead actress after just 20minutes. Halfway through the film I begin to ponder if I’ll be able to find time to go to the second screening of this later in the week. Probably not, but you never forget your first.
Leaving the dark air conditioned comfort of the cinema I head out into the blazing midday sun for the official festival photo calls. It’s my first chance to lay eyes on genuine talent. The floodgates open. In just under 40 minutes I’ve seen Woody Allen, Owen Wilson, Adrien Brody, Rachel McAdams, Faye Dunaway, Uma Thurman and Jude Law. My camera pays for itself instantly with treasured memories.
Woody Allen is petite and elderly. Owen Wilson’s hair has a unique golden tint to it. Faye Dunaway’s face is taut like a well made bed. Adrien Brody has gone native, wearing a little black trilby hat and a little black goatee. Uma Thurman looks beautiful in a motherly way in a tight white summer dress and Jude does not remove his sunglasses.
I watch the press conference for this year’s jury and witness my first contender for highlight of the entire festival. An oddly emotional French journalist stands up and says he has a question for jury president Robert De Niro. He continues. “Mousier De Niro I want to know, did you f**k my wife?” The confused moderator asks him if it’s a joke. He replies “No, for me it’s an important question.” The room doesn’t know how to handle this and neither does anyone official. Eventually De Niro scrunches up his face with his typically quizzical expression and replies. “Well, I don’t think I did...”. Only in France.
Setting out on my own, I finally manage to register at the American pavilion. They seem delighted to have me and my British accent proves inconsequential. I sit at a table for 6 by myself, but not for long. I’m swarmed by cheery film students turned waitresses. I order a couple of bottles of fruit flavoured water and a pesto chicken Panini. The food comes and a few of the film students join me to talk films on their break. We discuss Poltergeist, the history of Native Americans in cinema and Steven Spielberg’s career. It’s welcome company and good conversation. We all swap business cards and part ways.
I make plans to loiter around the American pavilion much more. It seems like the perfect place to mingle and munch hot bread. There are a few familiar faces giving talks and a flamboyant beach party promised for Friday night. Plans are already forming.
While massive crowds crane their necks and climb trees in the quest to glimpse famous faces on the red carpet for the opening night Woody Allen premiere, I make the bold decision to be one of the few people to head inside the abandoned Palais and take my pick of the seats in a deserted screening room. After all this is what I came for, to be part of the real action. The Films.
My second Cannes movie is about a Japanese girl who takes over managing the underachieving boys’ high school baseball team after the former manager who is her best friend becomes seriously ill. It’s full of endearing adolescent stereotypes and has an uplifting tearjerker finale. It’s the kind of stuff that any Disney TV movie would be proud of. My parents would be ‘happy crying’ by now and I have to work hard not to tear up. It’s too dark to see how the two Japanese men, the only others watching with me manage.
I have a hard time escaping and get lost in the international film section for 15 minutes. I eventually emerge, quite accidentally, through the artist’s entrance just in time to see Uma Thurman whisk herself into a waiting car in a white evening gown. A few other members of the jury follow her and I fiercely resist the urge to ask them what they think about De Niro and the Frenchman’s wife.
With no more films to watch, I take my first night time stroll down the main drag. The streets are flooded with people, as scruffy looking tourists and locals mingle with the post premiere crowds in black tie. I’m caught somewhere in the middle in three quarter length khaki chinos and sky blue shirt. I can’t work out whether my weatherworn Cannes festival baseball cap says seasoned pro or American tourist. I resolve to immediately start dressing better at night, to give myself more legitimate prospects of making it through some exclusive doors.
All around me photographers dart about taking photos of any passersby in black tie. Maybe they’re hoping to catch some random celebs by chance, or it could be they’re just trying to turn a brisk trade selling prints online by capturing everyone’s big night.
From a distance the lights and pounding music coming from beach tents appears to be amazing VIP after-parties, but on closer inspection it’s mostly ordinary restaurants and clubs, masquerading as exclusive with the visible addition of a couple of well dressed doormen. Still the knowledge that somewhere in this town something exclusive and memorable is happening at every possible moment is tantalising. I wander around for a while testing my sense of direction. I check where the good restaurants are and where the cheap ones are. No man can ever truly escape his budget.
Back at the flat I devour yesterday’s horde of tinned ravioli, shower and finally talk to my girlfriend back home. Fatigue keeps the conversation short but with any luck she’s reading this now feeling special because I mentioned her. I love you too.
Tomorrow I’m going to my first screening at the Grand Theatre Lumiere for Sleeping Beauty. Sadly it’s not a live action remake of the Disney classic; instead it’s a psycho-sexual drama about an exclusive academy that apparently teaches young girls how to be near comatose playthings for rich old men. There’s a lot of buzz around town about it. Perhaps it’s because of the apparently lush visuals, or maybe it just seems a more relevant story in a place like this.
Russ Nelson 11th May 2011
Quote of the day: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro"
Hunter S. Thompson -Rolling Stone Feb 28, 1974
Wednesday 11 May 2011
Cannes Diary Day : -1
Cannes is sun drenched without a cloud in the sky, but it still feels like a town braced for impact on the eve of a storm. Tomorrow the 64th annual film festival starts. A frenzied swarm of directors, writers, producers and actors will descend upon this luxurious slice of French coastline in untold numbers. I’m proud to say this year, I’m one of them.
Physically getting here was easy. The plane ride was quick, smooth and chatty. It’s clear that we weren’t just on the same plane; we were all on the same ride. I sit next to two people from a photography agency who lament the fact they’ll be stuck in dark room looking at nothing but computer screens for the next two weeks. I sympathise but grin with anticipation at my own more enviable fate.
It may be called a festival, but Cannes isn’t really about festivities it’s about business. It’s actually a massive meat market for the entire global film industry and everybody is looking for something. Actors want new roles, studios want can’t fail projects and producers just want money. I want all that, but right now the priority is getting hold of our accreditation.
We hurriedly slip inside the iconic ‘Palais des festivals’ and down into the basement to collect our badges. It’s an unremarkable queue; it looks exactly like any you’d find in the bank or post office. Spielberg and Depp must be picking theirs up later. There’s no sign of them waiting on line. But finally after a brief exchange of passports and confirmation emails, we’re officially part of the festival. Armed with festival photo passes we’re now unstoppable.
It’s a delicious feeling to breeze through security checks with a simple flash of a badge. As the afternoon wanes on the novelty fades a little, especially as you start to notice at least half the people in streets seem to have one too. But still, you wouldn’t want to be one of the other half would you?
We walk to the back of the complex in search of the international pavilions and find an endless row of white tents, beneath fluttering flag s that represent almost every country in the world. We try to register with the Americans because the vicious rumour is that they do the nicest breakfasts and their tent is considerably less cramped than the British one. But it’s not open yet and like much of the town it’s still very much under construction. Seeing last minute carpet being stapled to the floor feels a bit like peeking under a magicians cloak too soon. So we agree to return tomorrow when the magic’s ready.
With our missions for the day accomplished we begin to cruise the nicest hotels. Who knows which stars may already be there, lurking in their 5*rooms, casually plotting the perfect outfit to emerge in. They may not yet walk among us, but they certainly tower over us. Billboards and banners plaster the sides of every building along the waterfront. Enormous pirates, cowboys, robots and even Smurfs loom larger than life above.
We go inside the Majestic to sit down for a decedent steak lunch. Photographers and camera crews hover around the entrance waiting for something amazing to start happening. Inside the walls are decorated with black and white photographs of timeless old movie stars. It’s a tasteful reminder of a proud history of elegance and excellence. Seated outside we opt for the shade over the sunlight. I can tell the heat is going to be a handful on this adventure.
I savour the tender meat and pepper sauce while surveying the terrain. Tomorrow these mostly empty tables will be filled to the brim with costly meals and costly talk. Having finished our food we haemorrhage some cash and walk back out past the same media throng. They’re still waiting and I suspect they won’t really move at all for the next two weeks. Some may never leave.
We walk next door and slip through the foyer of the Carlton Intercontinental into a dining area where a glass of apple juice costs 13 Euros. With our pricey beverages comes our first famous sighting, of sorts. A renowned and much adored French actor turned director walks into the room. Unfortunately ignorant of his name and the reason for his acclaim I can’t share the excitement of passing guests. Still the walls have nice pop art pictures of De Niro and James Dean on them and we’re given complimentary chocolate fondants.
Meandering back along the beach we see local teens sunning themselves en masse on the rare patches of public sand, clearly more preoccupied with all over bronzing than the impending movie madness.
We pass a TV reporter doing a piece to camera in front of a backdrop of luxury yachts, trying desperately hard to ignore grumpy heckles from a nearby French homeless man with skin the colour of an old leather handbag. It’s an odd juxtaposition of joy and misery. Interestingly his abuse is in perfect English. I can’t help but think how bizarre it would seem if in a similar situation back home someone like that was able to curse in flawless French. But that’s the English for you; we just don’t take the time to learn these things.
DreamWorks have erected a 25 foot high pair of boots on the beach. In case anyone’s unsure exactly why, two workmen are busy fastening a ‘Puss in Boots’ logo to the top. On the ground below waiters are busy assembling dining tables and well stocked bars. I’m not sure what giant novelty footwear would really add to a party, but that’s precisely the kind of thing I’m here to learn.
We swing by the official souvenir shop; lingering in the shade and admiring the predictable selection of key chains, t-shirts and branded bric-a-brac. The prices are vaguely reasonable and I acquire a much needed watch. It’s already clear that timing will be everything on this trip. After all, if you don’t really speak the language or know the score, you’d better at least know what time it is.
Eventually we head back to the apartment, picking up some vital supplies along the way. Mostly consisting of water, milk, cornflakes, strong sunscreen and some tinned ravioli. I briefly consider going back out to one of the local cinemas to watch some of the latest box office offerings in French, but that seems like shear madness on the brink of such a massive movie marathon. I wisely save my strength.
France has had a long love affair with the bespectacled genius of Woody Allen, so it’s very tricky to secure an invite to his latest effort ‘Midnight In Paris’, which opens the festival.
But with luck and an ambitiously early start we might still make it into the second screening tomorrow.
Russ Nelson – 10th May 2011.
Quote of the day - “Toto... I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore”
Physically getting here was easy. The plane ride was quick, smooth and chatty. It’s clear that we weren’t just on the same plane; we were all on the same ride. I sit next to two people from a photography agency who lament the fact they’ll be stuck in dark room looking at nothing but computer screens for the next two weeks. I sympathise but grin with anticipation at my own more enviable fate.
It may be called a festival, but Cannes isn’t really about festivities it’s about business. It’s actually a massive meat market for the entire global film industry and everybody is looking for something. Actors want new roles, studios want can’t fail projects and producers just want money. I want all that, but right now the priority is getting hold of our accreditation.
We hurriedly slip inside the iconic ‘Palais des festivals’ and down into the basement to collect our badges. It’s an unremarkable queue; it looks exactly like any you’d find in the bank or post office. Spielberg and Depp must be picking theirs up later. There’s no sign of them waiting on line. But finally after a brief exchange of passports and confirmation emails, we’re officially part of the festival. Armed with festival photo passes we’re now unstoppable.
It’s a delicious feeling to breeze through security checks with a simple flash of a badge. As the afternoon wanes on the novelty fades a little, especially as you start to notice at least half the people in streets seem to have one too. But still, you wouldn’t want to be one of the other half would you?
We walk to the back of the complex in search of the international pavilions and find an endless row of white tents, beneath fluttering flag s that represent almost every country in the world. We try to register with the Americans because the vicious rumour is that they do the nicest breakfasts and their tent is considerably less cramped than the British one. But it’s not open yet and like much of the town it’s still very much under construction. Seeing last minute carpet being stapled to the floor feels a bit like peeking under a magicians cloak too soon. So we agree to return tomorrow when the magic’s ready.
With our missions for the day accomplished we begin to cruise the nicest hotels. Who knows which stars may already be there, lurking in their 5*rooms, casually plotting the perfect outfit to emerge in. They may not yet walk among us, but they certainly tower over us. Billboards and banners plaster the sides of every building along the waterfront. Enormous pirates, cowboys, robots and even Smurfs loom larger than life above.
We go inside the Majestic to sit down for a decedent steak lunch. Photographers and camera crews hover around the entrance waiting for something amazing to start happening. Inside the walls are decorated with black and white photographs of timeless old movie stars. It’s a tasteful reminder of a proud history of elegance and excellence. Seated outside we opt for the shade over the sunlight. I can tell the heat is going to be a handful on this adventure.
I savour the tender meat and pepper sauce while surveying the terrain. Tomorrow these mostly empty tables will be filled to the brim with costly meals and costly talk. Having finished our food we haemorrhage some cash and walk back out past the same media throng. They’re still waiting and I suspect they won’t really move at all for the next two weeks. Some may never leave.
We walk next door and slip through the foyer of the Carlton Intercontinental into a dining area where a glass of apple juice costs 13 Euros. With our pricey beverages comes our first famous sighting, of sorts. A renowned and much adored French actor turned director walks into the room. Unfortunately ignorant of his name and the reason for his acclaim I can’t share the excitement of passing guests. Still the walls have nice pop art pictures of De Niro and James Dean on them and we’re given complimentary chocolate fondants.
Meandering back along the beach we see local teens sunning themselves en masse on the rare patches of public sand, clearly more preoccupied with all over bronzing than the impending movie madness.
We pass a TV reporter doing a piece to camera in front of a backdrop of luxury yachts, trying desperately hard to ignore grumpy heckles from a nearby French homeless man with skin the colour of an old leather handbag. It’s an odd juxtaposition of joy and misery. Interestingly his abuse is in perfect English. I can’t help but think how bizarre it would seem if in a similar situation back home someone like that was able to curse in flawless French. But that’s the English for you; we just don’t take the time to learn these things.
DreamWorks have erected a 25 foot high pair of boots on the beach. In case anyone’s unsure exactly why, two workmen are busy fastening a ‘Puss in Boots’ logo to the top. On the ground below waiters are busy assembling dining tables and well stocked bars. I’m not sure what giant novelty footwear would really add to a party, but that’s precisely the kind of thing I’m here to learn.
We swing by the official souvenir shop; lingering in the shade and admiring the predictable selection of key chains, t-shirts and branded bric-a-brac. The prices are vaguely reasonable and I acquire a much needed watch. It’s already clear that timing will be everything on this trip. After all, if you don’t really speak the language or know the score, you’d better at least know what time it is.
Eventually we head back to the apartment, picking up some vital supplies along the way. Mostly consisting of water, milk, cornflakes, strong sunscreen and some tinned ravioli. I briefly consider going back out to one of the local cinemas to watch some of the latest box office offerings in French, but that seems like shear madness on the brink of such a massive movie marathon. I wisely save my strength.
France has had a long love affair with the bespectacled genius of Woody Allen, so it’s very tricky to secure an invite to his latest effort ‘Midnight In Paris’, which opens the festival.
But with luck and an ambitiously early start we might still make it into the second screening tomorrow.
Russ Nelson – 10th May 2011.
Quote of the day - “Toto... I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore”
Monday 2 May 2011
Carl Barat Interview The Libertines Film Premiere
We talk to Libertines frontman Carl Barat on the red carpet at the premeir eof the new documentary film about the band's triumphant return at last year's Leeds and Reading festival.
Carl talks about making the film, the future of the Libertines, his recent and forthcoming solo album and plans to write a screenplay for a feature film of his own.
Gary Powell Interview The Libertines Film Premiere
We talk to The Libertines drummer Gary Powell about his experiences in the band, naked drumming and his many many future projects
John Hassall Interview The Libertines Film Premiere
We talk to John Hassall the bass guitarist for The Libertines about the bands new documentary film and his musical inspirations. John also talks about the best and worst thing about being in the band.
Director Roger Sargent Interview The Libertines Film Premiere
We talk to acclaimed music photo journalist and director Roger Sargent on the red carpet at the World premiere of documentary film There Are No Innocent Bystanders.
The film follows reformed indie rock band The Libertines on their triumphant live comeback at the 2010 Leeds and Reading festival. One of the most influential bands of recent times the band lead by feuding frontmen Pete Doherty and Carl Barat left a huge impression on the British music scene after the brief years the band survived and two acclaimed albums they produced.
Director Roger talks about the challanges of making the documentary, what it is exactly that makes The Libertines such a special band and how he hopes the film will help to present a different side of Pete Doherty to that of the constant tabloid scandal.
Glen Matlock Interview - The Sex Pistols & The Faces
We talk to Punk Pioneer and Rock legend Glen Matlock, bass guitar player for both The Sex Pistols and The Faces. Glen talks about his rock and roll life and shares some of his amazing experiences with people like Iggy Pop and Debbie Harry. He also talks about the current generation of rock bands.
We caught up with Glen on the red carpet at the World Premiere of the new Libertines documentary film.
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