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
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