CANNES, May 16 -- Fifty years of sun, sex and cinema...
Thus the name of the Variety retrospective book released to commemorate
the golden anniversary of the Cannes Film Festival. Unfortunately, this
had been largely untrue for the first week-and-a-half of this year's festival.
The sun was nearly non-existent thanks to the virtually non-stop cloud cover.
The sex ... well, Cannes may boast the most beautiful people on earth, but
let's just say there's a reason they call it the Golden Palm award. And
the cinema? With the difficulty in securing tickets for many festival showings,
attendees were fortunate to catch more than two or three competition screenings.
But things finally began to turn over the past few days. Tickets started
opening up for films and the thermometer shot up to 22 degrees centigrade
(for all of us metrically illiterate, that's pretty damn warm) and sunny.
Well, pardon my Meat Loaf, but two out of three 'aint bad.
So, with the sunlight streaming through the decaying wooden window panels
of my one-star hotel this morning, I made a pledge. I would find a woman.
Ray-bans on, collar up, a dash of Hi-Karate. Head to that create-your-own-business-card
machine near Rue d'Antibes to manufacture some new credentials: "Richard
Schwartz. Director, New Talent Development, Hollywood Productions."
There's gotta be some naive young starlet who will buy it.
In canvassing the Croisette I observed a lot of possibilities, but trigger-shyness
prevented anything from materializing. First stop was the Majestic Terrace,
a hotbed for power brokers and aspiring talent. I enjoyed a tiny $6 glass
of warm soda and the complimentary dish of mixed nuts and green olives.
I heard one producer tell another producer sitting at a nearby table that
he thought yet another producer was "an idiot savant... minus the savant."
Love those creative insults. And there were a couple supermodels having
a summit by the pool, but they appeared none too approachable.
Next stop was the Palais, where I promptly headed down to the basement.
For Cannes newcomers, this area can be quite enlightening. Here in the same
building that houses the world's foremost film festival one can find a virtual
smorgasbord of adult entertainment. Sunshine Entertainment, Wicked Pictures,
etc. Posters advertising such films as "Anal Intruder 2" (and
they said they'd never make a sequel!). A greasy-looking porn executive
gesturing -- pinkie ring and all -- to a group of Korean businessmen meeting
to buy foreign distribution rights for some lesbian action film. If I can
find a Cannes woman anywhere, this is where she'd be, right?
I did meet Serenity, a porn star wearing a satin jacket embroidered with
the words "World Champion Topless Dancer 1995." In fact, Serenity
was a very nice, intelligent girl, but she wasn't the type of person I'd
like to bring home to mom.
I was getting restless. A full day and no success yet. After talking my
way into the Miramax party at Planet Hollywood, I instantly spotted some
potential. I took 25 minutes deciding on the "approach" speech
-- something about me being tight with Harvey Weinstein and wanting her
for the next Tarantino pic -- and made my way across the dance floor. She
lit a cigarette and winked and smiled ... I opened my mouth ... a perplexed
look crossed her face. "Je ne parles pah englais" or something
to that effect. I can't speak French, but I didn't have to wait to get home
to my Thomas Cook translation guide to get the picture. All together now,
'the whiff...'
Guess I'll just have to be content with the sun and the cinema for the time
being.
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