Au revoir les stars
For me c'est fini. I jetted out of Cannes last night at the end of a frustrating 24 hours filing copy down a spotty modem connection and trying (unsuccessfully) to get into a screening of Lars von Trier's Manderlay. The foyer was a crush of surging bodies, the theatre was almost full, and I was almost through the door when a herd of security guards pushed past to give the remaining few seats to a entourage of elegant gatecrashers. In their midst I caught a glimpse of a diminutive woman with jet-black hair who might just have been Salma Hayek. For the sake of neatness, let's say it was. Salma Hayek Ruined My Cannes: it's as good an epitaph as any.
The non-screening of Manderlay was one low-point from my week on the Croisette. The press conference with Sharon Stone was another. We sat, stood and paced around for nearly an hour while Ms Stone was having her picture taken outside, and when she did deign to materialise, the whole thing lasted 13 minutes and the questions (and I use the term loosely) were gruesome. "Sharon, you are looking so beautiful and sexy today," chirruped one Euro-hack. "And my question is that if you will be wanting a co-star for your new movie then I will be gladly doing it."
I came away wondering if this journalist - and several others - might not be studio plants; hobos recruited from the beach, given a quick wash and scrub and dotted around the crowd to fire pat-ball questions. Five euros to tell her how beautiful she's looking; 10 if you manage to remember the name of her forthcoming film. For the record, the movie in question is Basic Instinct 2 and Stone was looking as hot as Georgia asphalt (almost literally, in that she sported the sort of tan one normally finds on a Tandoori chicken). I'm expecting the payment to be deposited in my checking account.
And yet even this couldn't dampen down the Cannes experience. The festival is often confusing, frequently stupid, horribly hierarchical and occasionally ugly. But it is never dull. I did not manage to see half the films I wanted to see, nor hook up with a third of the people who I had tentatively arranged to meet, and still the days (and nights) passed as an accelerated blur of aborted screenings, bolted meals and half-finished conversations. Next year I shall be more rigorous, more organised. I shall plan my diary better. I'm looking forward to it already.