I have now settled into a ritualized life-style as naturalist observing the
life forms of the Festival, even as the Event itself is perceptibly winding
to its close. The daily routine begins . . . well, it's difficult to say
precisely when the day begins, but consciousness is usually achieved by
noon, then the morning ablutions: one pot of coffee while bathing, four
Camels, a brief jack into the Net, and tender palpation of my liver margins to
determine collateral damage from the night before. Then to the American
Pavilion, where the reveille continues through another cup, and a stare at
the LA Times, the Hollywood Reporter. I am concerned that these are
starting to feel like sources of information.
At around this point, someone I have met, under circumstances now mysterious
to both of us, will drop in -lighting briefly or lingering depending on the
intensity of their putative schedule, and their psychodynamic status.
Following the trenchant analysis of Q's case, which she has advertised to
many of her colleagues, the demand for on-the-spot consultation has
increased. Particularly in vogue are requests for the 3-minute test for
"finger agnosia." There are
predictions that by Cannes '97, Gerstmann's syndrome may merit a short
subject, perhaps an Elizabeth Taylor benefit luncheon.
Speaking of Q, whose case has not received attention since Part VI of these
chronicles, but about whom I have continued to take detailed notes, there
has been a subtle progression of symptoms. She speaks now of firing staff,
hiring others, in a pseudorandom stream, sometimes firing and hiring the
same individual within a sentence. She is obsessed now with acquisitions
of telecommunications concerns - cable networks, satellites - I became
anxious when she dictated a memo to her secretary to obtain a trademark,
following my suggestion that she might use the title "Thought Broadcasting
Network", failing to detect that this was simply an inside joke among
psychopathologists (no one ever claimed these jokes were funny). The causes
of this exacerbation remain unclear. Testosterone fluctuations following
the making, and breaking, of deals comprise one source of variation in
symptoms; other sources of pathologic variation may comprise nutritional
factors, dehydration, caffeine intoxication, sleep deprivation. Then again,
eight days of Festival exposure alone could account for this. I will plan to
follow-up in NY or LA, to determine whether these symptoms are reversible.
But I have strayed from describing the diurnal cycle to which I have
maladapted here. Following the morning consultations, I consider briefly
attending a film, then plan fresh ways to leave town, and return in time for
some evening dinner, party, and the night beyond. I have learned that
film-avoidance is not unique to me, and that others, even those with
considerable experience and more impressive credentials, are daunted by the
mystification of the process for obtaining tickets, locating screening
rooms, and accessing these venues.
Obviously trained by the Festi-Cabal, guards enforce the arcane directives of
their invisible superiors,
changing locations, redirecting lines, establishing new rules on an hourly
basis. Leaving town becomes a most attractive option, unfortunately less
feasible for the poor journalists who feel responsible for actually seeing
the films before writing their critiques.
Today the plan was to head West - I hummed to myself "Do you know the way to
St. Tropez" - and wound the Peugeot through the beauties of the Old Cannes
village, past the Tour de Mont Chevalier, beyond Mandelieu and the Golfe de
la Napoule to the Corniche de l'Esterel. Hugging the coast, stopping for
sights at Miramar, Pointe du Cap Roux, Cap du Dramont, poking into caves,
then a Tartare du Chef at the sleepy port of St. Raphael.
For the first
time, I realized that I had identified a control group. The inhabitants
seemed utterly unaware of the Festival. They spoke of fish, wind, and
weather. No cellular phones, no fluttering Filofaxes, jeans and gray
sweatshirts replaced the black (more common) or nauseatingly patterned pink
and chartreuse (too common) body stockings, and the heaving decolletage.
Some subjects did not even wear sunglasses!
This Westward exploration stood
in stark contrast to that Eastward, where the obvious mark of Cannes '96 was
apparent at least as far as Monaco. I entertained two hypotheses for this
directional difference in vulnerability: (1) prevailing Westerly winds carry
an air-borne virus selectively Eastward, and up the Cote d'Azur; (2) the
risk is maximal in those territories where the Rosicrucians have established
firmest footing. I made notes to gather the relevant data on weather
patterns, and a topographic map of religious penetration, to perform the
relevant correlational analyses immediately on my return to NY.
Verifying that the Festivirus was still below trace levels as far as
St. Maxime, and the sun hiding behind the Alpes Maritimes, I returned for
the nocturnal activities. Tonight, the MTV party at Palm Beach on the
Pointe de Croisette. Access was easier, perhaps too easy, although a crowd
of several hundred gathered outside the gates and red carpet, peering past
the dual security check-points leading to the interior halls. I had heard
that Party Invitations may bring an easy 400 FF to scalpers, and considered
this as an option to recover the costs of the Casino pilot study, before
deciding that further investigation of the species inside was central to my
mandated mission.
The subjects here appeared to comprise a representative sample, assorted to
some extent by musical tastes, the live blues-rock fusion and casino setup
attracted more of the cynics and journalists, the interior technostrobe drew
more livid costumes and the younger NY mosh-pit crowd, while outside, the
halogen beams, laser logos, and dance-rock funk offered safer haven for the
LA breeds.
The mood of the participants was elevated by Tequila, flowing
into luminescent shot-glasses with neck-cords to assure, I imagine, adequate
dose titration, even after total loss of visual-motor control. Observation
alone revealed few novel species, and more detailed interviews were
difficult to conduct, given the ambient decibel levels. I did assist a pair
of Swedish independent film makers obtain footage of the live music, by
serving as a human tripod, lofting the camera-girl on my shoulders to obtain
a better angle, but this pair was unremarkable, and distinguished from the
comparable species that habituated LA only by the absence of dark roots in
their blonde coiffures.
I sighted one remarkable specimen, somewhat aloof from the crowd, and
isolated in an area where noise was minimal (let's say, about 8 dB less than
the IRT platform at Times Square). A brief interview revealed that V is a
21 year old, living in Monaco, and incidentally a model for Marlboro,
sponsor of the Grand Prix. After learning that V's boyfriend, a 46 year old
'businessman', with very possessive personality traits, a penchant for
violence, and a fondness for firearms, was expected by helicopter at any
minute, I decided this interview might be safely abbreviated, and with the
sound of breaking glasses beginning to outstrip even the loudspeaker
systems, I crunched may way out of these halls, and back to deliver these
notes to you.
Your peripatetic correspondent,
Dr. Reichard Flickheimer
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