Match Point producer Lucy Darwin on Cannes
On Saturday, I broke my month-long abstinence from alcohol and Anything Nice to Eat. It was instigated not, I admit, for health reasons, but to lose some inches to fit into my dress for Cannes. Woody Allen's Match Point - starring Scarlett Johansson, Emily Mortimer and Jonathan Rhys Meyers - has been selected for a special evening red-carpet performance. We are all very excited, although I feel Scarlett and Emily probably don't need to undergo the seismic shift in the waist department that I do. I am one of the film's three producers, and in the spirit of Bridget Jones, I am recording in diary style my nerves and outrageous good fortune in equal measure. Match Point is a British film, so we are flying the flag - with the exception of Woody and Scarlett.
It is Sunday morning and I'm reading about Cannes in the Observer - specifically a big article on our star, Emily Mortimer, who sums up her excitement by saying: "I'm always going to remember this. In 50 years' time I'll still be mumbling about it." But although Cannes used to be all about glamour, it's now mostly about business. Certainly this is true for us, as we're going to show and sell the film. No one has seen it yet.
Match Point is a dark, sexy drama about luck. Contrary to the Sunday Times, it is not based on the life of Charles Saatchi. Nor does it star Woody (another widely reported "fact"): the only American in the film is Scarlett Johansson, whom Woody once described as being "touched by God".
'Call me to discuss your tootsies'
"Hi Lucy, I hope you are well. Please call me so that we can discuss your tootsies for Cannes! Jane." This awesome email graces my inbox early this morning: the lovely Jane from Jimmy Choo is offering to sort out my feet for the red carpet in Cannes. She says: "Your Bafta shoes are bound to be in need of replacement. Please go into the shop and Mani will look after you." Mani quickly emerges from the back of the shop with silver mules; they are the perfect fit. I feel like Cinderella - ready to go to the ball.
Cannes is a mesmerising, week-long orgy of contrasts. Flying down on easyJet for the princely sum of £25, I try to feel special while being cattle-herded with the holidaymakers. I strike up a conversation with my neighbour, Ian Ilett. He is searching for money to fund his project The Meat Trade, based on Irvine Welsh's book and due to star Robert Carlyle and Colin Firth. He has got eight days to drum up interest, and tells me that, depending on whom he's talking to, he is pitching it alternately as a satirical black comedy and a slasher movie.
Sixteen years on from my first Cannes (which involved, among other indignities, changing into my evening wear in the aeroplane toilet), things haven't changed much. I'm still sharing a room and on a tight budget. Because rooms in Cannes are at a premium, I can afford only one night - the big night itself - in a proper hotel. Since everyone else (Woody, Scarlett, Emily, Jonathan) is at the Martinez, that's where I've checked in. I've paid €630 for my night of luxury - although I'm annoyed to read that writers for Variety magazine have managed to get one for €500.
These jewels cost more than my house
I have just spent €7 on a Coke at the Majestic Hotel. I also had to turn down Dennis Hopper's birthday-party invitation on behalf of the group. He's having a small dinner on a yacht, but our film will be showing while he's celebrating.
With hangovers from a very good supper at La Mère Besson, we are all meeting for the press conference at 10.10am in the lobby. A cortège of cars takes everyone to the Palais, where hundreds of photographers are waiting to scream: "Wooodeeee!" It's a beautiful day. The glittering sea provides the perfect backdrop for Jonathan, Emily, Scarlett and Woody as they pose dutifully. My stomach is churning: while we are doing all of this, the world's press are watching our film ... what will they think?
Our sponsors, the jewellers Chopard, have organised a sumptuous cocktail party for us. They arrive with jewels for Soon Yi, Scarlett, Emily, Jonathan's girlfriend Reena and me. Signing a bit of paper that makes me responsible for a pair of earrings, a necklace and a ring that together are worth more than my house is mildly disconcerting - but not as disconcerting as finding out that the man I thought was a stalker is actually one of their appointed bodyguards. He is there every time I turn around, and does not leave until I've handed over the goods.
We're treated to a 10-minute ovation
As we're driven through the crowds that line the route, I'm remembering the time we opened the festival with Hollywood Ending two years ago. Woody and I made the front page of Le Monde with a fabulous picture. He had just seen the wall of photographers on the red carpet for the first time; his jaw hit the floor in horror and there, just behind him, was me - pushing him towards them.
For the first time in my experience of working with him, Woody decides to sit and watch the film with the audience. Usually, we leave once the lights go down and come back as the credits roll - he's not comfortable watching his work once it's finished - so his presence this time only adds to everyone's anticipation. The audience laughs, gasps and occasionally bursts into applause during the screening. At the end, we are treated to a 10-minute ovation. We are lucky: Cannes audiences are notoriously hard on films.
Then it's back out to the hordes of photographers as we scramble for the cars. On Woody's behalf, I'm hosting a dinner for the actors after the movie in NouNou. Scarlett, Jonathan and Emily take a while to arrive since they have been wrongly delivered to the famous Moulin du Mougins. But once they're there, we get stuck in to champagne.
But what do the French think?
We pore over the reviews. Although the British press can't help but be a bit harsh on Woody's take on the English language and idioms, they have to acknowledge the "handsome production" and the "excellent cast". My favourite comments include: "Scarlett, back to playing a smouldering siren, is so luscious that it's almost too painful to watch." Scarlett's photo adorns the front pages of the Telegraph and the Times.
Best of all are the messages from my European friends. One texts me to say El País has hailed the film as "a work of art". The Italian press is littered with scary words like "masterpiece". But I suppose the most important are the French, since we are, after all, in Cannes. The critics unite under the banner "à la folie", which roughly translates as "mad about it" - the highest accolade they can give.