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.
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