Thursday, Day 1 People predicted an odd year at Cannes, and from a ground-level p.o.v. I think they might be right. Fewer people so far. More former exec’s who are now back out on their own, looking for projects and for money. These are old guard producers, some of them legends from thirty years ago when they were making the term “American Indies” a household name. Cinephiles still clamor to get tickets to the competition films, but so far the hordes of aggressive ticket-seekers who would rip the clothes off your back in search of a coveted film ticket aren’t in full force. Buyers aren’t racing to any screenings, hot or otherwise. The dynamic convergence of anticipatory cinematic excitement and eager celebrity expectancy seems dulled so far—more like the slowly lingering volcanic ash than the explosive eruption Cannes itself has been.
You know it’s a different kind of Cannes when Matt Lauer and the US Ambassador to France officially open the American Pavilion. For those of us with a birds-eye view from the Irish Pavilion (where the coffee is free and the whiskey available), the Secret Service outnumbered filmmakers 2:1.
The regulars are here, those of us who expect to see each other and those who move stealthy and quickly through their 8 films a day—in and out of the market screenings, no time for chit chat over coffee or the ubiquitous Rosé and Salade Niçoise. By the way, if you thought no one smokes any more, come to France. Come to Europe.
And if you’re a filmmaker wondering about the state of your chosen industry, stay away. Far away. I think, so far at least, the atmosphere of Cannes this year is enough to make dental hygienists out of any auteur. If you’re looking for the heartbeat of new cinema, the pulse here is a little weak.
Tomorrow: Looking for Proof of Filmic Life….
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