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”
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