Day 4, Sunday, May 16, 2010 Cannes

The late Jack Valenti (MPAA) once said “Cannes is like an oasis where all the caravans come across the desert and spend several days trading information, stories, and getting up-to-date intelligence on how the industry is going and where it its going.”

Besides the fact this is the only thing Jack ever said that I will agree with, I know Jack said it because I’m quoting straight off my flat-mate’s book, Hollywood on the Rivera by Cari Beauchamp and Henri Béhar. My flat-mate being Cari Beauchamp, here writing for Vanity Fair. And oddly enough, our weekend flat-guest is Paris-based producer Vivian Norris who is here writing for Huffington Post. I say oddly enough, because Jack Valenti was godfather to Vivian’s sister.

This is what Cannes is. We discover in the morning over our showers and coffee that we’ve all spent the same amount time trying to avoid the crazy lunatic woman who will hijack you into conversations with other people (mostly famous) who also haven’t a clue who she is—Viv (with me) at the Abu Dhabi party, Cari at the Eden Roc (at the Hotel du Cap). We share stories about Benicio Del Toro (I’m not proud— that man has a gorgeous ass), who is here on the jury. Cari has deliciously found a way to circumnavigate the Cannes queue absurdity in a way that reeks of mythic proportions…although I will keep her secret safe here. I’ve had my moment of walking the Crosisette with Screen Daily’s US Editor Jeremy Kay, stopping every “thirty seconds” as he put it, to say hello and introduce someone to him.

In the world of movie magic, Cannes is “the big trampolino” (so says Sophie Loren, with whom I will never, ever disagree).

It makes sense, then, that the Cannes main course is made up of the movies…and to embrace Cannes is, quite simply, to see the movies. Thankfully, it’s what I’ve finally been able to do.

Mike Leigh’s “Another Year” is stunning, brilliantly depressing cinema at top form. I immediately felt the urge to call a few friends to make sure they knew I loved them as I walked out into the bright Cannes sunshine at the end of the film. Four simple seasons, with nothing but ordinary life to examine, felt as honest and beautiful to me as anything I’ve seen. The performances are more than extraordinary. The reality here of a life less lived is almost too much to bear (hence my flurry of phone calls), but the emotional enormity of the everyday reaches the audience like an unfettered tidal wave. For me, this cinches it. Mike Leigh is genius: What started with “Naked” has now traversed into a decades-long crash course in what a brilliant director can do with brilliant actors.

“Inside Job” is as fascinating a watch, but for far different reasons. Director Charles Ferguson manipulates his audience with a tale of greed, avarice and power when he really doesn’t have to: the players in the 2008 global economic implosion are hubristic enough to simply hang themselves. Ferguson also seems to have a pre-disposition to making sure everyone REALLY, TRULY understands just how stupid the Americans are because nearly all of his European and Asian talking heads play the roles of the “knowing-yet-excluded” with pitch perfectness. Which we know can’t really be the case, since Greece has collapsed and Portugal, Ireland and Spain aren’t far behind. Nonetheless, for a comprehensible birds-eye view of a multi-headed beast, “Inside Job” satisfies and delivers.

Tomorrow—A salad before desert…