I know what day it is by the cover of "Variety" and how many of my little
pink Zantacs are left. Sort of a strange system, but Cannes has a way of
distorting reality.
Jokingly I told a buddy of mine that I was crashing Cannes. Little did I
know how true that would be. Cannes is designed not to let anyone crash the
big party. All of the Film Scouts have impeccable credentials with the
notable exception of me. Sorry but Dallas Family magazine doesn't cut it
here. Neither does Distinctive Lifestyles, or the Southlake Journal. But
Paragon Cable as a Time Warner affiliate does have a little weight, very
little but enough to get a yellow press pass. The caste system designates
that white press cards are for daily newspapers and other heavyweights. Blue
and pink are the middleweights, including weekly papers. Then come yellow
which has some amorphous grouping of technicians and multi-media types.
Lastly, there are the orange photographers, but they can attend only the
scripted star shoots. And only those film cameras with a tripod are allowed
to shoot in the press conferences and on the front steps of the Palais. I
found this out today when I slipped into the Robert Altman
"Kansas City"
press conference and was told I wasn't allowed to shoot. At all. I couldn't
stand with the cameramen because I didn't have a tripod and couldn't stand on
the stairs without one. Given two ounces of authority, the average person
will exercise all two ounces of it. That seems to be petty darn universal.
So the security guard who initially informed me who told me I couldn't shoot
was tres displeased when I tried to get a shot of Robert Altman, Jennifer
Jason Leigh and Miranda Richardson, as I was leaving. So sue me. At least
he didn't throw me out. Maybe they have a rule about that too.
I was fascinated by Altman's "Kansas City". I had heard that
if you like
jazz, you'd like the film, because it's full of jazz and is structured as a
jazz session. Well, I don't like jazz, but I found the movie to be
compelling. I just didn't like/comprehend the ending. Jennifer Jason Leigh
kidnaps the opium addicted wife (Miranda Richardson) of a politician in order
to get her husband released by the black gang he has crossed. I was touched
by the odd bond between the two women.
Luckily, Altman commented that some audiences might not understand the
ending, but that it was merciful. Ahhh! Suddenly it made sense. But not
everyone is going to have the benefit of having the director to explain the
ending to them. The movie is supposed to do that. Maybe I'm just not smart
enough or movie-literate enough. But don't count on it.
It is Sunday here so all the locals have come out to watch the steps of the
Palais for movie stars. They wander around with their ice creams, small
children, dogs and cameras. It makes me homesick, or rather more homesick.
I love the French, love the films, love the food, but miss my family
desperately. Calling home makes things worse. When I hear the voice of my
15 year-old son I burst into tears. "We really miss you, Mom." They are the
sweetest words I could hear. Especially since I'm not likely to hear, "We
have your tickets for the Kenneth Branagh Cocktail party, Madame."
Walking through the crowds, down the streets or in the stores is never easy.
Well, maybe for New Yorkers used to crowds, but I'm from Dallas, where only
the freeways and Neiman Marcus are crowded. It takes me ten minutes to walk
from the hotel to the Palais, at first. I am deferential to those around me
and try to be polite. I catch on pretty quickly that this is not the order
of the day. Walking here is like driving in Boston: a contact sport. Do not
make eye contact; it is a sign of weakness. Cars have to stop for you in the
crosswalk so just step out into traffic...if you dare. Don't take it
personally when people bump into you. And keep moving. My time is cut in
half and I am feeling pretty confident. Then I bump into an older couple
walking on Rue des Serbes. She speaks to me in French. "I don't speak much
French," I reply. "Neither do we! Are you with the festival? We are
traveling Europe, been all over. Just came from Florence" she overflows.
Trying to be polite, I ask where they are from? "Boston." she replies. "Boy,
these sidewalks sure are crowded." I walk away glad I encountered them on a
sidewalk and not on a Boston freeway.
Walking is just one of the ways that the French women maintain their size 4
figures. Hotel Touring has a special weight reduction plan. The elevator is
the size of a phone booth, so most of the time the stairs are faster. Voila!
No need for step class. Breakfast is served in a lovely room on the first
floor. Tea or coffee is accompanied by orange juice, a baguette and a
croissant. This is the standard breakfast in France and is delicious - for
awhile. But Cocoa Puffs are sounding better by the minute.
The Festival du Film is also in on the exercise plan. The stairs of the
Palais are just the beginning of the training for journalists. After running
the initial set of stairs and being told by security to wait, I'm frogwalked
into a mad dash up two flights of stairs when the press section is opened.
To get blood flowing after two hours of sitting, press conferences are held
immediately after screenings to allow journalists to jog to the third floor
of the Palais and jostle each other for position at the front of the line.
The US military may want to take lessons on keeping the troops in shape.
[By the end of the day, Sunday, Leslie sprained her ankle and went home to
Dallas. We wish her a bon voyage, award her the purple heart and wish her a
speedy recovery - Film Scouts]
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