Conversation in Cannes has a way of being very silent or very deep. It
can be chit-chat full of the blithe despair adopted by people who can't
figure out why they're here in this place and not over there in that one.
Or it can suddenly take philosophical curves at dangerous speeds. Famous
critics abound, in naughty defiance of the belief that, like children, they
are better seen and not heard. Favorite moments include Vincent Canby's
remark, "I ran into Norman Mailer at the Lost & Found - checking
to see if anybody had turned in his soul." Roger Ebert showed up late
at a press conference, fussing to get his TV camera running and then directed
a question to an actress who was not on the dais and the star of a movie
that was not the subject of this particular press conference. Michel Ciment
(the pope of French criticism) stood on the steps of the Palais chiding
the American critics for undoing everything he has tried so hard to do FOR
American cinema. Ducking out of a screening packed to the timbers with
VIPs, the acid-tongued Rex Reed claimed, "The best thing I can do for
this film is not see it." And one afternoon, the entire American press
corps, some 25 big critics, including Ebert, Corliss, Sheila Benson, Jay
Scott, Rex Reed, the august Village Voice Hoberman, et al. trudged off after
lunch to see "Surf Nazis Must Die." Why? Nobody was sure, but
it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
There's so much going on at Cannes - about 1,500 movies - that you can't
escape a nagging fear every hour of every day that you may be missing the
really important film - or lunch - or party - or press conference. If you're
looking for movies to write about or to buy, your day runs something like
this. Breakfast by 8, because screenings start at 8:30. If you don't walk
out of that movie, you make it to your mail box in the Palais about 11:00
to see what invitations are/are not there. You rush to a phone to RSVP
quickly before trying to cadge a lunch among some swells sitting on the
beach, before ducking out quickly to make a 1 o'clock screening. If you
don't walk out of this one, you rush from it to a 3 o'clock screening, emerging
wall-eyed to plop down with anybody who will be your friend and drink coffee.
Time for a nosh and shower and change, before the evening festivities start
off. Either it's dinner before the screening, or a cocktail party before
the 8 o'clock pic, emerging to cruise through the party in hopes of a buffet
line and get back to see the midnight special screening. While standing
on line or listening to other people chat, you sort through your notes and
vow to get up early to write your column or report or whatever it is you're
here to do.
Seeing this many movies every day soon creates in your mind a weird picture
composed of jagged little pieces belonging to several different jigsaw puzzles.
Every once in a while you say something weird, like "I'm sure glad
Woody Allen decided to put Sharon Stone together with Marcello Mastroianni
for his adaptation of La Traviata." I remember overhearing somebody
once say, "Everybody at the party was named Jerry and wearing hats."
If love makes the world go 'round, then publicity is what sets Cannes spinning.
Without the mousy little folks who kindly lead stars around from screening
to swimming pool, it would all be just summer camp with sex. The publicists
at Cannes are like Rosenkranz and Gildenstern, like Ehrlichman and Haldeman,
like Boris and Natasha! Publicists tell you if, when, and how long you
can see a star. They invite you to the parties. They decide who's in and
who's out. In short, they rule Cannes, because they are the organizing
principle. For many years, a woman named Renée Furst did for Cannes
what Gabriel waiting to do for the Second Coming. When Renée tooted
her horn, the world listened. She matched people up and made things happen.
Furst was one of some 50 people who are on the festival circuit year-round.
If there's a festival, they are there. Or put another way, if they are
not there, it's not a festival. They bring an energy and excitement that
makes it look like fun, sound like fun and, sometimes, feel like fun.
Americans at Cannes do something other people consider strange. They get
together with their friends from back home. You run into Norm, whom you
see once a week at the Magno Screening Room, and you say, "Hey, Norm,
let's have lunch on the beach." Before you know it, you and Norm are....well,
what are you doing? That's what people want to know! Why spend time in
France with your own kind? There's a good reason: Cannes is the kind of
experience that makes you reach out for something warm, fuzzy and familiar.
Familiar will do, in case Norm is bald. You see, it's fun to see people
like yourself on the Riviera, gawking just like you, saying, "Can you
believe we are here? Watching this stuff?!" And seeing your friends
helps you do that. Back in the days when Cynthia Schwartz worked for Renée
Furst and Cannes took its toll on us, we would get together in the days
following the festival and just walk around town, telling each other what
had happened, how crazy it was and laughing it all off. We needed that,
just to recover from the zany intensity of doing our jobs at Cannes. We
swapped the most incredible stories - in total confidentiality. And I know
they remained confidential, because I can't remember all the wild, wonderful
stuff - or I'd write a comic book about it.
My clearest memory of this principle at work was a party on David Bowie's
yacht. Now you think this is going to be high-profile, right? Lots of
glitterati! Nope. I got the invitation from a friend, who said, this is
just a party, no particular reason, no particular celebrity. I figured
somebody famous would surprise us all, and I brought a friend who was certain
we'd see Liz or Michael Caine or Charles & Di (an item that year).
We went in small boats out to the yacht, we boarded, drank champagne and
chatted with other folks from New York and Los Angeles, London and Berlin
whom we mostly knew. Then we got in the small boats and returned at sunset
to the dock below the Carlton Hotel. "What was that all about?"
asked my friend. "Just the nicest I've ever been to at Cannes."
"But what was the point?!" he snarled. "I dunno, there
was no publicist at the door to tell me."
Cannes can be just about anything to anybody, but the one thing it never
is: what you expect.
Copyright 1994-2008 Film Scouts LLC
Created, produced, and published by Film Scouts LLC
Film Scouts® is a registered trademark of Film Scouts LLC
All rights reserved.
