It was a rare and perfect day in Cannes. The light streamed through the
window very early, so I didn't have to grope my way through the rain to get
to my early press screening. They begin at 8:30, you know. In fact, I
didn't have to go to the press screening, because I had been lucky enough
to see "Fargo" in the U.S. before coming.
Instead, I followed my nose to the new film of a Hungarian director who
always seems to make interesting little films. Peter Gothar is his name
and in 1982, he made a film called "Time Stands Still," about rebellious
youth in Eastern Europe that foretold what would happen about 1989. I can
see his movies only at festivals, it seems, so I took a brisk stroll
through the morning sun down to the Croisette, pausing to admire the way
the light bounced off the white hotels and onto the turquoise morning
Mediterranean and back onto the white sails flapping in the harbor as boats
set out for a day on the waves.
Peter Gothar's film "Vaska" is actually in Russian and is ostensibly a
Russian legend about two thieves and their crazy adventures until they
settle down to be law-abiding citizens. It's a zany comedy that is more
about what's happened since Communism evaporated and people have had the
opportunity to "rob" as they see fit, before becoming good democratic
citizens. It is also layered with famous scenes from very famous Russian
films - to illustrate the lessons of Communism that they use to justify
their current actions, so we get to see clips from "Potemkin" and sundry
works by Eisenstein. It has the added virtue of brevity, so we were out in
89 minutes - back in the sun and up for another stroll along the promenade
above the beach.
At this point, my friend Pedro from L.A. bumped into me and tried to get me
to go see Garcia Marques' "Oedipe," an adaptation of the old Oedipus Rex.
But I had to interview Robert Altman, so I strolled along
to one of the
fancy hotels to sit down and ask a director with four decades of experience
if he had learned anything from all these years of coming to Cannes. "No,"
he laughed, "every time I ask myself why I put up with all this."
All this? The sun, the sea, the laughing people, the love of movies. He
wrinkled his forehead and thought of his lawsuit with the French producers
of "Kansas City," of his next project that he'd rather be
working on in the
comfort and privacy of home, and of the many times he's come to Cannes to
endure flattery and confusion. "Everybody's got an opinion," he says, "but
nobody seems to know why they like anything." I thought that was astute.
More on Altman later, but I thought it was the fulfillment of a dream to
sit and chat with him about jazz.
Then the nice publicity people at Fine Line treated us to lunch, so I got
to hang out with my friends a little longer and see a few more people whom
I'd not seem for a couple of years. It goes like this: "Albert? Albert,
hi!" "Karen! Karen, what're you doing here again?" "Same old, same old.
Going to the movies." "So what have you seen?" Then we drop titles the
way Vanity Fair drops names and hug each other, promising to get together
for dinner or lunch on the beach (knowing it won't happen, but sincere
about what a nice idea it would be).
Then I went over to a long sloping lawn in front of the Grand Hotel and we
interviewed an Stellan Skarsgard, a star from Lars von Trier's "Breaking
the Waves." He has eyes the color of Egyptian lapis lazuli, and he let us
know that von Trier wasn't even out on the oil rig to direct the
hairy-scary scenes in the storm when the rig blows - seems von Trier is
afraid of any form of locomotion and couldn't "break the waves."
Then Katrin Cartlidge (heroine in "Naked") and Jean-Marc Barr (lots of
French films), who are both in the movie, sat down to chat about whether
actors are artists or prostitutes. They had a good argument, then went on
their way. The sun was still shining.
People were still mellow. There aren't the crowds that usually find coming
into Cannes just to stand around and gawk. There aren't that many people
who even came to be gawked at. Don't get me wrong. It's not sparse. But
you can walk down the street, and it's not unpleasant. There seem to be
two reasons for this. First, the strike hit France hard, and a bit of
recovery is still going on, so people aren't spending money like they did.
Secondly, there was no strike in the U.S., but the Americans are not here
in force, and the rumor is that they're miffed, because Europeans laugh at
many of the big Hollywood films that studio execs try to pawn off on the
Cannes Film Festival as art. Art is something the French feel quite good
at. It's hard to tell them "Last Action Hero" is an existential character
study.
An old friend from Australia is here with his latest film, so I wandered
through the curving streets of Cannes to one of the regular cineplexes
tucked away behind some shops to attend what is called a market screening.
This means it's not one of the films officially selected for the festival,
but it's on display and being sold to various countries - called
"territories."
Paul Cox's latest gem is called "Lust and Revenge" and I laughed through
all but two scenes, and in one of those I was so touched I almost cried.
It's very clever and the performances are spot-on. Afterward, Paul was
standing in the lobby and everybody congratulated him and was so proud -
almost as if they shared in his success simply because they've known him
for so long and appreciated his work. Or maybe it was just the persistence
of the sunshine.
Then I ran into a highly intellectual European critic who always has very
deep things to say about everything. A cloud moved slowly across that ball
of fire shining down on my head, but I listened while he analyzed something
I had said in a press conference, corrected my opinion, then asked me to
write an article for his magazine expressing my point of view - since
others like me might also be wrong but find it interesting. The sun peeked
back out, so I consented and came back to my room to shower and get dressed
to the nines for two South American parties tonight.
The Argentinian party was a very dignified and pleasant affair with
champagne and canapes, campari and soda. They announced the revival of
their own film festival at Mar del Plata, a place kind of like Cannes,
where in November a fiesta like this will be launched. Such a good idea -
there should be film festivals all over the world, wherever there is enough
sun outside to make up for the hours of darkness while watching other
peoples' dreams.
By 8 pm I was getting hungry, so a group of us - a lovely
English-Argentinian woman named Dianna, a very important South American
distributor Alex, a Canadian publicist called Susan in a nifty dress,
American Robert whose hobby is food, my pal Pedro who loves to eat, and me
- headed toward the old port to eat fish soup and do some people watching.
The restaurant we chose was so nice, we wound up eating and drinking and
laughing. Lots of old friends stopped by the table to tell us of today's
successes - and make us promise not to tell. "The ink's not dry."
About midnight we joined some more South Americans at a Mexican party on a
terrace above the Majestic Hotel. The women all had flashing eyes, and we
talked about a movie project on the life of Che Guevara, and everybody had
different opinions of how it should be made...under the moonlight of a
perfect night on the Riviera. This is how it's supposed to be - this is
the point of the pilgrimage. Goodnight, Moon.
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