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
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