Lorna Allen provides her own guide – and handy tips! – for the cinema event of the year, the Cannes Film Festival.
One rainy January afternoon, I started daydreaming of possible holiday destinations for summer 2005– somewhere sunny, glamorous and preferably reachable by budget airline - and came up with the perfect idea: the south of France. And when better for a budding film journalist to head off to this hedonistic playground but during the 12 days when the world of cinema descends upon the region – the International Cannes Film Festival. After all, a haphazard last-minute decision to go there 10 years ago resulted in my getting within touching distance of Johnny Depp, Michael Hutchence and Andy Garcia, so how could I go wrong this time with a little forward planning and organisation? So, onto the interweb I went and grabbed a bargain £88 return flight to Nice for the last 5 days of the festival and a few extra ones to bask on the beach.
The Cannes Film Festival is the largest international showcase of cinematic art and has served as a launching pad for the careers of now established directors such as Quentin Tarantino (Reservoir Dogs, Kill Bill) and Steven Soderbergh (Sex, Lies & Videotape, Traffic). Low-budget films such as The Blair Witch Project and more recently Open Water also secured distribution in the Marche Du Cinema, so, unlike say, the Oscars, anyone can submit a film. The festival came into existence back in the ‘30s when the Fascist regimes in Europe were gaining influence and politics was having a negative and stifling impact on the art world. The British, French and American jury members at the Venice Film Festival felt that films with political ties were winning over more worthy and artistic films so they resigned in protest claiming political corruption. In 1939, France started its own festival and Cannes was chosen for its favourable climate. The first festival was cut short after only one screening (The Hunchback of Notre Dame) because Germany invaded Poland and France entered into World War II, but was relaunched in 1946. The Festival has been going from strength to strength ever since. Accreditation passes are extremely difficult to secure and sadly at the time of planning my excursion I had no affiliation with any publication. Not to be deterred so easily, I decided that if I wanted a foot in the door, where better place to start than where the world’s media and filmmakers converge and socialise?
My first hurdle was accommodation. This is a tricky one and again I couldn’t stress enough the importance of booking months in advance. Every May, this town of 69,000 people doubles in population. Many of the larger (i.e. nicer) hotels are block-booked by companies a year in advance and many others require a minimum stay ranging from five to ten nights. Predictably, they raise the rates sky-high during this period so a great deal of searching the Internet is required. If you stumble across something reasonable then snap it up then and there because it probably won’t be available next time you look. Check out www.hotel.activehotels.com and www.francehotelreservation.com Sadly, I had to quickly relinquish the dream of staying in Cannes itself during the festival and instead had the bright idea that Nice would be close enough – gradually moving closer and staying in Juan Les Pins and Antibes. Both resorts are close enough to take taxis back and forth from if you get an invite to a late-night party. Between 6am and midnight, there is a regular train service between Cannes and most towns along the coast. Nice is also an option but miss the train and you are homeless until the next morning.
Everyone who heads to Cannes at this time of year has an agenda. I met screenwriters and filmmakers who had travelled in the hope of meeting that one person who could help launch their careers (some had even successfully managed to blag accreditation) and I was no different. Having decided to combine my annual holiday with work, and desperate for some glitz, glamour and useful job leads, I packed my most Audrey Hepburn-like dress and Chanel sunglasses and headed off into the sunset armed with a lot of optimism and some dodgy business cards determined to return home as the next Roger Ebert.
My first night in town, I got to experience the unpredictability of the industry first hand. Invited by a friend from the British Film Institute, who had the pleasure of attending the festival through work, for drinks at their villa in the hills, I braved the torrential rain (which everyone insists is very rare but I have experienced on both of my festival visits) and boarded the train from Nice. I arrived at the villa looking like a drowned rat in jeans and pashmina to discover an Aladdin’s cave of potential contacts (journalists, filmmakers, editors) all sipping rosé and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres in the most refined and luxurious of settings. Slightly intimidated, I tried to acclimatise quickly and began to mingle despite my slightly dishevelled appearance. First stop on my introduction to Cannes nightlife was a stopover at the Austrian Film Party taking place on a private beach, to which my new acquaintances had been invited. The fact that I was a mere mortal and outsider without an invite, or one of the much-cherished laminated accreditation passes, didn’t seem to be a problem until I tried to casually swan past the doorman and it became a case of ‘Your name’s not down – you’re not coming in’. So whilst the rest of my party mingled in a sheltered area consuming more free rosé, I loitered rather shiftily on the rain-sodden Croisette twirling my borrowed umbrella and people-watched for an eternity. Not quite how I pictured by debut at the world’s premiere cinematic event but I derived much amusement from watching the rich and beautiful returning from their premieres, wading through puddles barefoot in their evening gowns, holding Jimmy Choos and Manolos in their hands. I must admit, I did feel somewhat discouraged – if I couldn’t successfully blag my way into the Austrian Film Party of all places, what chance did I stand with any others? I mean, seriously, who knew Austrians even made films, anyway? An opinion, my friend wisely advised, when she re-emerged a while later, that I probably shouldn’t repeat if my plans to be an international critic were ever to be realised!
Still soaking from my impromptu shower, I was then ushered to the main watering hole for thirsty British journalists – the terrace of The Grand Hotel. Here, I surprised myself by clicking into networking mode. In fact, after another bottle of rosé, I became convinced I was a networking goddess and I was acquiring a growing pack of business cards to prove it. Although, in retrospect, starting up conversations with a rather abrupt ‘Who are you and who do you write for?’ may not have been the best conversation starter, nor was upbraiding the editor of a rather well-known national film publication for not responding to an application I sent in over a year ago. But fortunately, everyone seemed well-oiled themselves, so no-one took offence. (Note to self: work on social skills for next year). I soon found myself engrossed in conversations about celebrity interviews gone wrong and which star’s nose-candy problem was getting out of control. At 2am, when The Grand bar shut up shop, the entire terrace relocated to a tiny dive of a café across the street called The Petit Majestic where we drank warm Heineken out of plastic cups until the wee hours of the morning. As I tottered out at 5am, I had the good fortune to accidentally meet the producer and director of the only Irish film to be shown this year at Cannes and the boys kindly extended an invite to the screening.
The next few days were spent drinking in the intoxicating atmosphere (as opposed to the wine) of the now sunny Croisette and hanging out with some journalists who – possibly out of pity – had taken me under their wing. I spied Rhys Ifans (Notting Hill) and director Jim Jarmusch (Broken Flowers) on the street, Robert Rodriguez (Sin City) emerging from the Martinez hotel, and then stood like a lemon for 45 minutes outside the Carlton hotel with a thronging crowd waiting to catch a glimpse of…well…anyone at all famous basically. The vague rumour circulating was that Tommy Lee Jones was destined to make an appearance. Just as I thought I was going to dehydrate, a limo pulled up only to deliver some silver-haired old French actor in a heinous Hawaiian shirt. The two French people in the 200-plus crowd seemed pleased – but you can imagine my disappointment! I decided to take shelter from the heat and headed for the screening of Undressing My Mother, the short Irish film I had been invited to. The film, directed by Ken Wardrop, although only four minutes long, was a poignant and sensitively filmed monologue from a 60 year old recently widowed woman, in which she reminisces about her deceased husband and contemplates her body image. The film received a special screening as part of International Critics’ Week having previously scooped a host of other awards including the Jameson Short Film Award at last year’s Cork Film Festival.
By day four of my reconnaissance mission, however, I felt like I had arrived! A contact at the BFI secured me a day pass, and a feeling of belonging and acceptance came along with it. I was floating on cloud nine, only to be brought back down to earth with a thud when a rather unfriendly woman at the accreditation desk informed me that my pass didn’t actually allow me access to any of the films! Not to be defeated so easily, I discovered that blagging is an essential task at Cannes – even with accreditation. In a spirit of tenacious determination, and on the advice of a friendly middle-aged couple with whom I was exchanging rusty French platitudes outside the Palais, I learnt that many of the films in competition require invitations for their second screenings (normally the day after the big evening premiere) rather than a pass. Solution: stand on a wall and scribble ‘Invitation?’ on a piece of scrap paper in lipstick and bob’s your uncle. It wasn’t long before someone took pity on me and I was traipsing up the red carpet and into the screening of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, Tommy Lee Jones’ directorial debut, in which he also stars, which ended up winning the awards for Best Screenplay and Best Actor.
One thing my little pass did provide me access to was the International Village, so I was able to refuel on nicotine and caffeine in the British Pavilion and chill out on the private beach.
That night, after several extortionately priced mai tais in the Noga Hilton and a spot of hardcore people-watching, I regrouped with my new acquaintances and we tried to gatecrash several parties to no avail, opting instead to go to the closing soiree for the Directors’ Fortnight section of the festival at the Kodak Pavilion in the International Village. Not exactly star-studded but a lot of fun and a lot of free – you guessed it – rosé wine and hors d’oeuvres.
All in all my unaccredited Cannes experience was an enjoyable success – although there are probably several editors around the country who wish they had kept a tighter hold on their business cards! The rich and influential are accessible, and opportunities are there for the taking for those with determination, perseverance and a little ingenuity. And if all that hobnobbing and industry business doesn’t float your boat, well, there’s always the weather (most of the time)!
What Joe Public can do at the Festival
Several sidebar sections of the festival are open to the public. It is possible to get free tickets to films shown in the International Critics’ Week at the Espace Miramar on Rue Pasteur. The general public can also purchase tickets for 6 euros for films in the Directors’ Fortnight section of the festival. These can be acquired from the tent outside the Noga Hilton Hotel.
The Cinema On The Beach is a nightly outdoor film screening at about 9pm for approx 6 euros. Alternatively, bring a blanket and sit on the public beach and you can watch the movie for free.
Star spot outside the major hotels; Noga Hilton, Carlton, The Majestic Barriere and the Martinez on the Croisette. The best time to hang around outside is late afternoon, prior to the evening screenings at the Palais – you will catch a multitude of stars leaving in their finery.
On the last Sunday of the festival, the Palme D’or (made each year by Chopard) is presented to the winner on the red carpet outside the Palais with the Jury and guests in attendance. In 2005, the jury included director John Woo (Face Off, Mission Impossible II) and Salma Hayek (Frida, Desperado). The other awards are presented the evening before from inside the Palais, but the ceremony is simultaneously projected on the screens outside.
Get your hands on one of the daily editions of Variety, Screen International, Moving Pictures or The Hollywood Reporter from a hotel lobby and look out for daily screenings of films in competition, which require an invitation. These can be blagged. Make a makeshift sign – use your lipstick or lip liner if that is all you have at your disposal and make it clear you are looking for an invite – it works and doesn’t cost you a centime!
Wait in front of the steps at the Palais de Festival and catch the Jury and guests arriving. The best place to stand is on the road looking directly up the steps behind the white barriers.
If you are there to network and get a foot in the door of the film industry, then head for the terrace at The Grand Hotel at about 11pm onwards and then onto The Petit Majestic on Rue Pasteur afterwards. These are the two places where all the British journalists, distributors and wannabe filmmakers gravitate to for some late-night drinking and schmoozing. Warning – these people seem to party hard so take all promises and suggestions here with a pinch of salt. DO get as many business cards as possible!
Points to remember:
Book early and try to get there for the first week – that’s when the major films premiere and when most of the big name stars are in town.
Pack for all conceivable situations (sun, rain, casual, dressy). People say it never rains in Cannes during the festival - don’t believe the hype! I’ve been there twice and it poured. Essential items for women to pack: little black dress, heels, sunscreen, fake tan, bikini, and sunglasses. Aim for French chic – neutral colours and easy to mix and match items. There will be plenty of Versace on the nouveau riche so don’t even bother trying to compete, they look ridiculous – why should you too? Men, you have it easy – just bring a smart change of clothes. Cobble-stone streets and excessive walking make comfortable shoes a necessity.
Single girls – bring a ring, which can masquerade as a wedding band. Cannes is very close to Italian border so you will be approached by a lot of men who won’t take heed of subtle brush-offs.
Do not get indignant or stroppy with the French. Even in the high-end hotels and restaurants, they seem to delight in being unhelpful. Instead, opt for the demure, extremely polite approach. Do try to speak French if you know any, no matter how rudimentary it may be or how awful your accent sounds. They seem to find it amusing but cute, especially if you are female.
Bring a camera and keep your eyes peeled. You don’t want to be relying on your camera phone when Leonardo DiCaprio (or someone you may actually want to see) happens to casually stroll by you on the Croisette. This is one time of the year when the ‘untouchables’ wander amongst us ordinary folk – be prepared or your friends at home won’t buy it!
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