A word about suspenders.  I’ve never been a suspender guy, but in a tux it’s great.  My tuxedo is tailored but I either lost a lot of weight on my pre-Cannes diet or they didn’t go as tight as I wanted.  There’s no belt loops, so suspenders to the rescue!  Once attached, you can keep them on all week and slide into the tuxedo like well, an old suit.  Also, they keep your shirt tucked in admirably.

A word about my favorite fabric: Polyester.  Polyester is immune to both wrinkles and debris.  The place I’m staying has a cat in residence and its white hair is a nightmare.  Last year my cotton-based tux was a hair magnet, but this year I haven’t broken out the lint brush once.  Even a bird shat on me, an indirect hit.  White Rain, and not of the hairspray variety.  No problem.  A little water on a hanky left the tux looking good as new, circa 1975.  It also made me happy to have rocked the pocket ‘chief.  Great for wiping tears, cleaning off a place to sit, and bird poop.

I am already having “swine bird” problems at home, now abroad.  A rabid robin has shat three times on my driver-side door.  My uncle informs me that they preen in your driver-side mirror and then handle their three S’s, all of which are defacatory.  I bought a BB gun before I left, and I’m taking him out with extreme prejudice when I get home.  “15 pumps on a Crossman and it’s time to play”.  No more “red, red robin bob bob bobbin’ along”.  But I digress.

As we ride down to the Palais, I feel like an old pro by now.  I reflect on one thing I’ve missed: the Marche action.  I got the screenings, partying, and networking down.  But there is another side of Cannes, the Market, that I left pretty much untouched.  It’s impossible to be everywhere at once.  Hopefully next year my associates will make it, or I’ll at least have a clone of myself.  As we pass by the beaches, I make a mental note to play some volleyball next year. Looks like I still won’t make it down to the beach this time.

I recommend spending your first day acquainting yourself with the Palais building.  Instead, I’ve slowly done this over the course of two festivals. Today I discover a free espresso bar on the 2nd floor, hosted by Nespresso.  I have seen it before, I just never bothered going in.  They have a dozen varieties.  I ask for the best one.   Where has this been all my life?  A free all-you-can-drink liquid crack bar.  Yes!  After a few espressos, it is good to know another vital piece of geography: the bathrooms are on floor -1.

Le Havre

I have a few films to catch today.  On the last day of the fest they screen all the films in competition.  First I see Karusmaki’s Le Havre and absolutely love it.  It looks like it’s shot in Technicolor, somehow classic and contemporary at the same time.  It’s funny and sweet and moving.  It’s really hard to tell what you want to see from the Cannes official program as the presskits aren’t always representative of the films.  Thankfully, I had heard good word-of-mouth on this one.  Next is We Need To Talk About Kevin, which I enjoy.  Really cool non-linear editing, putting scenes together in a way that compares and contrasts them temporally.

After 2 movies back-to-back, I have to prep for the Closing Ceremony: my final James Bond mission. I leave the Palais and wolf down a sandwich, Coke and a cookie.  I am starving after rushing from screening to screening and I don’t know how long the ceremony and subsequent film will run.  Security is tighter tonight, so employ a variation on my technique.  It turns out to be the easiest infiltration yet!  This time as I climb the stairs, the seat I wave to is empty and in a good location.  I am a little earlier than normal.  I reach my seat and I can’t stop breathing heavy, shaking with adrenaline.  It’s usually hot on the balcony, but it feels like they were saving the A/C for tonight.

It’s very cool being in here for this.  All the judges are here as well as the filmmakers.  (Except for Von Trier, he’s persona non grata after his Nazi comments.)  This is my chance to catch up on my celebrity sightings.  I see Uma and Jude Law again, plus De Niro.  The awards proceed quickly and I am excited to see some of my favorites win:  Tree of Life gets the Palm D’or and Jean Dujardin wins the Best Actor prize.  The only thing marring the night is the woman in front of me.  She sits ramrod straight in her seat with a huge plume of frizzy hair.  When she applauds, she holds her hands up in front of her face and bounces up and down like she’s on a see-saw.  I am forced to lean forward in my seat to get a view of the stage, blocking the person behind me.  If we could all just sit back like civilized people, we could all see perfectly fine.  Violent images of retribution flash through my mind.  Thanks Drive.  Speaking of which, Nicolas Refn wins for Best Director.  In his speech he thanks Gasper Noe for helping him figure out how to choreograph the kicking-in-someone’s-face scene.  Classy.  We’ve come a long way since Fellini.

Jean Dujardin on the right

After the awards ceremony they re-dress the stage and play the closing film, Beloved.  It sucks.  I try to sit through the decade-jumping French musical about a mother and daughter wandering around Paris having selfish liaisons, but I give up an hour in.  As I leave the theater, I glance at the running time: 2 1/2 hours.  What!?  How do you justify a running time like that for such a trifling mess?  Glad I left when I did.  Because…

As I cross the street in front of the Palais, I run into RYAN GOSLING again.  This time I’m better prepared.  I compliment him on Drive, tell him it was violent, compliment his tuxedo, and give him my card.  Then I just start gushing words:  I also have a vintage tuxedo.  I’m sure you have more tuxedos than me, but maybe next year… Did you base any of Drive on Thief?  I feel nervous, and I’m mad at myself for being nervous.  I hope he doesn’t notice.  He’s really laid-back and I tell him I have a script with him in mind.  I want to go through the proper channels, what’s the best way to get it to you?  He says he’ll pass my card to his agent and she’ll email me.  Awesome.  I thank him, shake his hand, and then head back up to the pizza place in Le Suquet for a final Leffe.  This time I jot down the name of the restaurant: Don Camillo.  I plan to just chill out here but then I realize I have wi-fi signal and I check some old emails, finding the location to the Closing Ceremony: the Majestic Barriere (pier).  Once more into the fray.

The afterparty is locked down tight.  There’s guards galore and they’re only letting in people with white invitation cards.  I contemplate forgery for next year and check the perimeter down by the beach.  The thing with these VIP parties is they have one glaring weak spot: the beach behind them.  Time to employ one of my gatecrashing techniques:  You grab a beer bottle and appear as if you just stepped out for a phone call.  Then you walk “back” in.  I pick up an empty bottle of Heineken and “casually” make my way down to the border, guarded by one guy.  He spots me right away and watches me approach.  I feign a conversation on my cel phone, which I find difficult to sustain.  I pick a moment when his back is turned and make it just inside.  He wheels on me instantly, yelling “Non Non Non!”   Out of nowhere a rottweiler appears, thankfully chained up.  He barks at me along with his master.  Despite my “Mon Femme” excuse and implying that I just stepped out for a phone call, I realize there’s nothing I can say to convince him and I give up. I feign another phone call and gesture back up to the entrance as if the person on the phone has my ticket.  I’m getting plenty of acting practice.  I rush off into the darkness and then I head for the buses.  I’m not good at accepting rejection, but I count my blessings.  This is one of the only things I didn’t get into, and I’m glad I tried.  Next year I’ll be on the list.

-Grayson Wolfe

BEAR: Written, Directed, and Starring the man above - Nash Edgerton

I liked Spider a lot, dark and funny with a great short film pace.  I am expecting to discover some new shorts this year.  They only selected 9 films, so you would think they would all be gems.  Turns out this is not the case.  Bear is screening last, so we have to sit through 8 other films to get to it.  One or two are interesting, but the bulk of the selection is garbage.  There is this European filmmaking style where you make a slow-paced boring movie with a cop-out ending, and they all fit the mold.   A 10 minute short should never be boring!   They all feel like documentaries.  I’m getting really sick of this handheld camera epidemic.  As the girl next to me says, no one makes good films anymore.  They saved the best for last as Bear is very enjoyable, darkly comic, and puts everyone in a good mood after sitting through 2 hours of crap.

As I leave the theater, I bump into a Sound Designer I met last week and I go with her and her friends to get some lunch.  I tell them about the Sandwich Americain at the Croisette restaurant by the Carousel.  It’s a baguette with steak and french fries on it.  I had it last year and loved it.  It’s not quite as good today, but still very satisfying.  There’s a much more casual atmosphere now as the festival is winding down.  We enjoy the sunshine, end up playing foozball at an outdoor arcade – my team wins – and then part ways.

I go down to the Short Film Corner to catch up on films I promised to watch.  Turns out it’s closed.  Until 2012.  I forgot the Short Film Corner closes before the rest of the festival.  Oh well.  Maybe I can catch those shorts online.  I head over for the closing ceremony of Un Certain Regard, the sidebar of the Main Competition.  Un Certain Regard means A Certain View, and this is where I saw Blue Valentine last year.  I haven’t seen any of the films this year so the awards ceremony is hard to follow.  Plus, it’s all in French.  The closing film is Elena, a Russian film which has been awarded a special prize.  It’s slow-paced but beautifully shot.  The cinematography and sound design on every film I’ve seen here is immaculate.  I enjoy Elena.  It has a score by Philip Glass and an unpredictable plot.  Afterwards, Vladislav, the Russian producer I met at Renny Harlin’s film finds me.  We catch up, talking about Russian cinema as we head off for a drink.

We work our way through Le Suquet, the old part of town by the bus station.  There is a whole street full of restaurants and this seems to be where everyone is.  We walk past MICHEL GONDRY, music video director extraordinaire and head of the Short Film jury.  He’s dining with his lady friend so I don’t bother him.  Next, I walk right into NASH EDGERTON, director of Bear.  We have a nice chat and I tell him his was the best film in all the shorts.  He’s really cool.  We give him our cards and then settle in to a Pizza place.  It’s at the end of the street, and I don’t recall its name, but the pizza is amazing. I have a Leffe, my favorite “French” beer.  It’s actually Belgian, and I haven’t had it since last year. Vladislav and I have a great time.  I next see Harvey Weinstein’s assistant, my comrade in the Courtney Love adventure.  I give him my card and he offers to read some of our scripts, very generous of him.

Usually I say I could talk about films all day.  At Cannes, you get to talk about films for two weeks.  It’s Disneyland for filmmakers.  Instead of guys in Mickey Mouse and Goofy costumes, you get to see the real deal Holyfields.  This Magic Kingdom even has its own Castle – The Palais.  Vladislav and I walk down to the bus station and I bid him bon voyage.  We plan to collaborate in the near future.  I catch the bus home and make it asleep by 1 am – an incredible feat.

See you tomorrow.

-Grayson Wolfe

Bacon and Eggs French-style.  Words can’t describe how delicious this meal is.  I eat as I try to complete a marathon blogging session,  catching up for the past two days of adventures.  Before I leave, I talk with the proprietor and tell him his Cafe Viennois is the best I’ve had anywhere.  He says he knows that.  We discuss the quality of French coffee VS. American and he tells me the only good coffee he had in America was in NYC.  The coffee over here is in a league of its own.

Finally I leave the crib and reach Cannes at 19:30.  I want to make the premiere of Drive and I think it’s at 20:00, so I’m cutting it very close.  Turns out it doesn’t screen for another 2 1/2 hours, so I rush over to catch the next day screening of Hara-Kiri: Death of a Samourai.  For some reason it’s also titled Ichibei, which is confusing as I reach the check-in desk where they are handing out 3-D glasses.  This is the first film ever to screen in 3-D at Cannes.  I have been looking forward to it and know nothing other than it’s directed by Takashi Miike and that it is a Samurai movie.

So I am totally unprepared for the next 15 minutes.  The movie has already started and I take a seat in the back by the creaky door that is banging open and shut as people rush in late to find seats.

**SPOILER ALERT**

The cinematography is beautiful, as in every other Official Selection.  So far the 3-D is only evident in the subtitles which seem to hover out in front of the screen.  I’m enjoying the costume design and the set design of a dojo that looks truly lived in.  In this dojo or Samurai house, a masterless Ronin arrives with the request to commit seppuku, ritual suicide by disembowelment.  If a Samurai can kill himself in a prestigious house, he can regain some of his honor.  The master of the house tells him a cautionary tale of a young Ronin who came to the house in the past.  He was posing as a samurai and bluffing suicide so that the master of the house would talk him out of it and give him some alms to provide for his ailing family.  (Apparently this suicide bluff was a popular money-making scheme at the time).  The samurais of the house decide to call his bluff.  They make him commit hara-kiri with the fake wooden sword he brought with him.  Thus begins the most sadistic, brutal act of violence I have ever seen in my life.  Miike starts by framing him from behind, and I think maybe this won’t be so bad.  I’m prepared for a little violence.  After all the film is called Hara-Kiri.  But then he slowly starts ratcheting up the blood and gore as he brings his camera around to the front.  I avert my eyes as the man starts screaming, stabbing himself in the stomach over and over with a wooden stake.  What makes it so terrible is the way the actor plays it, shaking and screaming in a high-pitched voice.  I can’t take it any longer and I walk out of the theater.  As I exit I hear the sound of someone finally putting him out of his mercy.  Ugh.  I will still suffer for another couple hours.

I drop off my 3-D glasses, telling them no thanks the movie was terrible.  I’ve only walked out of one other movie: Aeon Flux.  That was just because it was so stupid and I had been dragged there in a group.  This time, I feel like I’m going to throw up.  It should be called Hara-Kiri: Death of my Appetite.  I Skype with Will and he tells me that people fainted during the premiere.  That’s information I could have used 15 minutes ago!  I’ve seen a lot of films, but this is literally the worst thing I’ve ever experienced.  I know disemboweling yourself with a wooden sword would be terrible.  I don’t need to be shown it in gratuitous detail.  I want to punch the director in the face.  Sicko.

**END OF SPOILERS**

I need a drink.  I head over to the Grand Hotel where I reconvene with Bijan and grab a beer.  I tell him how traumatized I am by what I’ve just seen and we catch up, talking about how we each got home after the killer Amfar party last night.  I take my leave, because Drive screens at 22:30 and it looks like I’m going to have to go James Bond again.

I’m tempting fate with this technique.  Each time I get closer to being caught.  This time as I walk in, a guard waves me down.  “Monsieur, Monsieur!”  I turn around to find two of them behind me.  I say nothing but I slow my pace and extend my arm toward the theater with a smile.  The other guard agreeably says something in French which feels like “oh, you are going to the so and so?”  I nod and he waves me on.  Body language is everything.  As I ascend the balcony stairs, I walk past one of the security girls.  She looks at me and I throw a wave up to a non-existent friend in the rows above.  She grabs my arm and says something in French, but then inexplicably lets me go.  I decide to go for the center top row of the theater.  I’m happy to be in here and people have waited for hours outside.  No need to take the good seats.

As I settle in, I rail against Hara-Kiri to the man sitting next to me.  He informs me that Drive is also supposed to be pretty brutal.  Now I realize the director is the same guy who made Valhalla Rising.  Great.

**SPOILER ALERT**

Ryan Gosling is superb in the film, playing a stunt driver who gets involved with the LA mob.  It’s a cool premise and the buzz about the film has been really good, but I’m not that impressed.  For one thing, I’m a font-head and I don’t understand the choice of Purple Rain cursive title fonts.  They’re also a bit like the font in Thief, which the film shares some similarities with.  And why a quasi-80′s soundtrack?  One recurring song is particularly bad, with on-the-nose lyrics about “a real hero”.  And the violence.  Absolutely gratuitous.  You could cut all the gory bits out and it wouldn’t affect the story whatsoever.  What shocks me is that people applaud at every killing in the movie.  What is with this bloodthirsty mob?  It plays like an arthouse action movie which apparently means a lot of slo-mo and Euro pop.  I will say this: the cinematography is amazing.  It has that Robert Richardson black-and-white-in-color look, with bright highlights and glossy blacks.  Very noir-esque.  There is a standing ovation at the end, but I don’t join in.  I do clap for Ryan Gosling though.

**END OF SPOILERS**

Afterwards, I grab a panini and wander back to the bus station.  The crowds are really starting to thin out now, and the bus station is a ghost town.  A lot of people leave after the first week, and I get a glimpse of what Cannes might be like sans the Festival.  I want to go home and watch a Disney movie to cleanse my brain.  What a bloody day.

See you tomorrow.

-Grayson Wolfe

There is a huge tent where the event will take place.  It takes 2 months to set up and is the size of a Target, complete with Air Conditioning. I learn what I’ll be doing that night – helping them with the auction and coordinating talent in the holding tents and Green Room. The Amfar benefit is a charity auction for AIDS research, founded by Elizabeth Taylor.  A plate at the dinner costs between $5,000 – $25,000.  They are Versace plates, but you don’t get to take them home.  My guide tells me that one year a lady did try to stuff one into her purse.

Later, they feed us lunch and with nothing to do in the afternoon, I sneak off for a nap.  There are cabins right on the cliffs, overlooking the water.  The view is amazing, and something I could never afford. I settle in for a two hour nap, but I am afraid someone will come and yell at me, so I only nod off for a couple minutes.  At 16:00, we get dressed for the evening shift.

Tuxed up, I reunite with my boss.  I am her assistant.  I have one main mission tonight: go and get Boy George from the Hotel and bring him down to the tent.  But that’s not until later, around 10pm (22:00).  For the first few hours I run errands: bringing the DJ a glass of wine, climbing up into the press booth to deliver some photos, overseeing the construction of a model plane which serves as a prop for an auctioned flight, etc.  I’m having a great time.  As I walk the grounds of the best hotel in the world, I shake my head in wonderment at my good fortune.  I start to think about it though.  I didn’t get lucky.  I came prepared, studying all about Cannes in the intervening year.  I found out about the Hotel Du Cap and the Amfar benefit, vowing to get in both.  I have started as many conversations as I can, meeting really cool people and being invited to really cool things.  Most importantly, I put myself here in Cannes, an incredible opportunity to make stuff happen.  As they say, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

After walking the Gray Carpet and a cocktail hour, the guests arrive inside the tent around 20:30.  Then the chaos begins.  I am posted at the side of the stage where the celebrities walk on.  Behind the stage is the kitchen, and as the dinner service starts, the clattering of plates rises to a thunderous volume.  I’m surprised they can’t hear it out in the audience.  Celebrities take the stage and they auction off item after item, the event moving along at a brisk pace.  Over the course of the night I will see Harvey Weinstein, Brooke Shields, Frieda Pinto, Dev Patel, Michele Rodriguez, Jane Fonda, Gavin Rossdale, Gwen Stefani, Milla Jovovich, Patrick Dempsey, Bar Rafaeli, Boy George, Courtney Love, Jude Law, Sean Penn, Kanye West, and Naomi Campbell.  I will interact with some of them.  The first one is Boy George.

I have his room number and about an hour before he’s supposed to go on, my boss sends me to get him.  I start to get nervous as I blindly make my way through the dark maze of pathways that lead from the tent to the hotel.  This was much easier in the daylight.  How am I ever going to make it back?  Especially with Boy George in tow?  I wasn’t told how to bring him back, I guess I just figured he and I would take a nice stroll.  As I climb the Gray Carpet into the hotel I realize this is a silly notion.  I will be shocked if he’s up for a walk through the woods.  I didn’t even leave a trail of bread crumbs.

After ringing twice at his door, a man opens.  I introduce myself and tell him I’m here to escort Mr. Boy er, Mr. George, er Boy George to the tent.  “Give us a sec will you?”  “Sure, no problem, I’ll wait right here.”  I take a seat outside in the hall and I hear Mr. George vocalizing through the walls, warming up.  After a few minutes, BOY GEORGE pops out.  “Bon Soir”, I say.  “Bon Soir”, he says.  I introduce myself.  He has two people with him and we take the elevator down to the first floor.  I explain it’s a long walk.  “Walk? That won’t do”, he says.  I feel stupid for even mentioning the idea.   I tell them I’m just a “lowly volunteer” and I’m sorry if this isn’t the smoothest journey.  One of his companions tells me “there’s nothing lowly about being a volunteer”.  I arrange a golf cart at the desk and we stand out front waiting.  I don’t know the etiquette.  Mr. George is friendly enough, even asking my name and where I’m from, but I don’t want to come off rude or insult the man.  So I keep my mouth shut and try to act like I know what I’m doing.  I’m praying to God I don’t have to drive the golf cart.  Finally it pulls up, with a driver, and they climb aboard.  There’s not enough room for me so I tell the driver which tent to go to and then run all the way back, trying to meet them before they arrive.  Of course they beat me by a mile.  I walk past the tent and see that they’ve made it safe and sound.  Mission Accomplished.

I head back inside the main tent, ready for a glass of water.  Turns out, it’s time to meet my second celebrity of the night.  As soon as I get inside, my boss gives me a thumbs up and then tells me to take COURTNEY LOVE to a tent where she can practice for her performance.  She is the surprise guest for tonight.  I find her waiting just outside on the back steps with a guitarist from tonight’s jazz band.  She looks exactly how you would expect Courtney Love to look.  She’s wearing a white dress and she looks very tall.  I introduce myself and then clumsily lead them off to the band tent, by way of the woods.  “Where are we going?”, she asks.  I somehow recover and deliver them to the tent.  She asks me if I can get her a computer or something with internet access.  She wants to do a cover song and needs to show the band how to play it off YouTube.  “Sure I can do that”, I say.  I don’t know if I can or not, but I’ll figure it out.  I write down the song she wants and I run back inside to tell my boss what I need.  I go back to the tent to check on Courtney, and I am treated to a personal show as she practices a song with the guitarist she’s just met.  A few minutes later a guy appears with an iPad.  He’s my age, maybe younger.  Turns out he’s Harvey Weinstein’s assistant.  He has no wi-fi access.  In fact the whole area around the tents are devoid of it.  I walk him back to the hotel, where I earlier was able to use my iPhone.  He gets online and starts to download the song.  It’s going way to slow and we give up.  But as we reluctantly head back towards Courtney’s tent to give her the bad news, it finally finishes downloading.  I walk in, hand them the iPad, and leave to let them practice.

I witness Boy George singing and am really impressed with what a great voice he has.  If I knew I was meeting him, I would’ve listened to more of his catalog.  As he’s coming off, KANYE WEST and NAOMI CAMPBELL are going on.  I am standing right beside Kanye, and I want to talk to him.  He’s one of my favorite artists of all time.  But I can’t.  I’m supposed to be protecting him from people trying to do the same thing.  I figure maybe I’ll catch him at the afterparty.  A little while later, Courtney takes the stage and gives a great performance of the song: Condine by Buffy Sainte-Marie.  I talk to her and the band briefly afterwards, and they thank me.

The auction ends and they inform us that this is a new record:  We’ve raised 10 million dollars!  Wow.  The stage managing is done, and we are essentially off the clock.  I grab a glass of champagne and we head to the afterparty.  I have a Staff badge, so I can get in.  The afterparty is held in the Eden Roc, another hotel building right on the water.  You’ve seen pictures in US Weekly I’m sure:

I do a circuit of the party, looking for Kanye.  As I head back in from the overcrowded deck, I run right into him.  I tell him he’s the best and ask for a picture.  He’s super cool.  I ask a nearby groupie to take the pic and she refuses.  I’m not meeting the nicest girls lately. So I snap the picture myself.  Note: the iPhone turn-around camera quality sucks.

note the aforementioned groupie in the background

Next I bump into Sean Penn.  I tell him I loved Tree of Life and he musters up a half-smile.  Jude Law and Jane Fonda are here too, but I don’t bother them.  I head out front where some of the other volunteers are.  They don’t have a staff badge so I get them in.  They’ve worked their butts off today and I feel a little guilty being inside when I’m not even a student in the program.  I see I have wifi so I send off a quick text to my friend Bijan.  I tried to get him on the volunteer list, but it’s a very delicate thing and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.  I tell him I can get him in if he can make it up here.  A few minutes later,  I walk right past him!  Of course he made it in!  You can’t keep a good man down.  He actually got an invitation. We catch up and muse about how cool it is to be right here, essentially at the top of the game.  Now, it’s time to make our bank accounts match our location.  Look out 2012!  I talk to two of the girls who got me into this amazing event.  I’m sorry to hear one of them didn’t make it in, and actually went back home.  I thank them again for their generosity.  Best day yet!

I take a shuttle back to Cannes and then split a taxi out to La Bocca with a really funny British couple.  They were at the party too.  They comment on Sean Penn’s festive grimace and tell me the Duchess of York was there.  Come to think of it, I think I saw her.  She had ginger hair and was looking at me like I should recognize her.  Sorry love! I make it home at 4:30 in the morning to the pre-dawn singing of birds.  I collapse onto bed exhausted.  I hope I sleep forever.

See you tomorrow.

-Grayson Wolfe

It is Wednesday morning. I get a late start and go ahead and tux it up early.  It will be a long night.  Melancholia is at 14:00.   I have no ticket, or any way of getting one, but failure is not an option.  Tomorrow I will be at the Hotel Du Cap all day, so I won’t be able to catch any next-day screenings.  And tonight I’m going to Renny Harlin’s new film and afterparty (Val Kilmer might be there), so it’s either 14:00 or never.   I get in with my James Bond technique.  I blend in with the crowds and head up to the Balcón access.  They are checking tickets.  I don’t have one, so I head off to the right, where they are checking bags.  Always look like a man on a mission, and you will part the seas.  I pass through this line, and I’m past the first obstacle.  Next, I reach the stairs with two guards, my next obstacle.  Now is the time to use my “mon femme” ploy.  When the guard asks for my ticket I say “Non… La Toilette…” , then I gesture back into the theater.  “Mon Femme”.  I had to use the bathroom, my girlfriend has the tickets in the seat, I imply with my broken French, gestures, and body language.  He waves me through.  Yes!  I find a seat as close to the center as possible, even though I end up in the top row again.  Beggars can’t be choosy.

**SPOILER ALERT**

Here’s the thing: I don’t like Von Trier.  But I do respect him as a filmmaker and Melancholia looks promising.  While I never enjoy a Von Trier film from an entertainment POV, I don’t think that’s his intention.  His intention is to share his depression with the world.  So he makes up sad stories.  These aren’t true stories of tragedy, these are fabricated what’s-the-saddest-thing-I-can-possibly-make-up scenarios.   As I write this,  I realize Dancer in the Dark is the only Von Trier film I’ve seen – the most depressing movie ever.  I am more acquainted with his work by what I’ve read and heard than by actual experience,  because nothing I’ve read or heard has made me want to watch his other movies.  (Except maybe Breaking the Waves and Five Obstructions.)

The film opens with some extreme high-speed photography which is really cool, like moving paintings.  It serves as a prologue, setting up the conclusion of the movie, and creating some tension throughout as you wait to see how the characters got into each slow-motion tableau.   This time he has his nihilistic sights set on not just one woman or character, but the entire world.  The movie is about how two sisters deal with the end of the world, embodied by a planet called Melancholia that is on a collision course with earth.

After the prologue, the first half of the movie follows Kirsten Dunst’s character, Justine, on her wedding day.  Enter the shaky cam.  When done properly, handheld camera does add an element of realism.  But a shaky hand-held camera pulls me out of a movie because no one is that bad of a cameraman in real life.  You know they’ve rehearsed these takes over and over, and yet the filming is worse than your epileptic Uncle’s handheld wedding videos. Zooming in and out on stuff and “accidental” late panning is just pretentious.  This film isn’t Bourne shaky, but after the stately opening, it takes some getting used to.  I actually feel a little nauseous.

There’s some symbolism here, but it’s not clear-cut.  Kirsten is fighting depression (not melancholy, some serious clinical depression).  Von Trier does capture that personality perfectly.  Kirsten does a fantastic job, but her character is so selfish, mean, and infuriating I can’t wait for the planet to come wipe her out of existence. The second half follows Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character Claire.  She is a sweetheart, the opposite of Justine.  But in the end, even she cannot escape the looming despair of the incoming planet.  There are some similarities to Tree of Life, thematically.  But whereas that film touched me on a deep level, Melancholia never breaks through because Justine and Lars Von Trier himself are so unlikable.  Von Trier is a talented filmmaker, no question, but I just don’t see the point of his movies except to express his nihilism.  Is he Justine – a mean-spirited cynic who tries to make the outside world as messed up as her own inner world? I don’t know. But I have to give him some points for the ending.  When you make a movie about Earth’s demise, you should blow up the planet!   There are some cool ideas in the film, but I don’t know quite what to think of it yet.  I’m still processing it.

**END OF SPOILERS**

At 18:00, there is a screening of RENNY HARLIN’s new film: 5 days in August.  Afterwards there’s an afterparty, and I’m on the list.  The film is playing in the Marche, screening at the Hotel D’Albion.  I actually fall asleep during it.  Not because it’s that bad, just because I’m that tired.  The subject material is the Russian/Georgian 5-day war, a tragic event maybe better handled with a documentary.  Instead it’s a clichéd action movie shot on shaky DV with some unintentional laugh-out-loud moments.  I don’t love it, but I’m still fond of Renny Harlin.  I’ve always liked his movies as guilty pleasures.  (Cliffhanger, though, is no guilty pleasure – that’s just a classic.)  In the screening I meet a very cool Russian producer who I chat up.  I invite him along to the afterparty, which is pretty cool.  It boasts an open bar and more great music.  Renny takes the stage and respectfully introduces a sobering montage of real images taken during the 5-day war.  Then they play the trailer for the film, which crams in every single action beat and explosion back-to-back.  I laugh out loud.  I love it.  Later, I see Renny dancing to Michael Jackson.  This is great. Val Kilmer is in 5 Days in August (for like 5 minutes), and I was hoping he would be here.  I never see him.  I run into my friend Bijan and Georg, the German writer I met a few days ago.  We have some free drinks and then decide to head out in search of the Playboy party, reportedly at Villa Oxygen.

The three of us stop in at The Martinez and ask the concierge.  He pulls out a map and circles the area we need to be.  We start walking, trying to wave down some taxis.  No one stops, so we end up walking the whole way, which isn’t that bad.  We get there to find a villa party, and after a few moments inside we realize this is not the Playboy party.  However, the Caipirinhas are off the chain.  I find a guy who knows where the Villa Oxygen is and he tells me it’s far from here, in Super Cannes.  (translation: above Cannes)  Bijan and I part ways with Georg.  He wants to “see the bunnies” but he has to leave early in the morning and it’s getting late.  Bijan and I catch an illegal civilian cab (35 Euros).  He pulls up, out of sight of the legit taxis, and we jump in.

We wind our way up into the hills above the city, providing great views of the neon-lit Croissette.  20 minutes later we’ve arrived.  We make it inside the gates to find an even slower party than the first one.  This is also not the Playboy party.  We are in the right place, but we are a day early. It seems we are on a wild bunny chase.  Inside, there’s a bald goth guy dressed like a Machina-era Billy Corgan along with a cast of other characters.  One lady is wearing a cat mask.  She informs us that she is the “ze cat lady” and that she is  “ze protecteur of the artists.”  I learn that she is in attendance every year, and never seen without her cat mask.  A life-size statue of Michael Jackson sits in the living room that is eerily real.  I swear he’s looking at me.  Apparently this villa was once owned by one of his managers.   I meet a very cool producer and we chat it up, doing the card exchange.  We stay for an hour or two and then hitch a ride home with an extraordinarily generous Swiss man.  He is headed in the direction of La Bocca and he says he can drop us off.  He turns out to be an investor, looking for projects.  We exchange cards.  I make it home at 4 am.  I have to be up at 6:30.

46 hour saga continued in Day 9 – Hotel du Cap…

-Grayson Wolfe

BADGE PLOY – Find someone with a Marche badge and say:  “I don’t know if I have a Marche badge or not.  My assistant set it up.  Is this the right one?”  They’ll say no and then display their own badge for you.  As you compare badges to try to sort it out, memorize their login and access code (it’s right on the front of the badge).   You shake your head at your own stupidity and blame your “assistant” for somehow getting you the wrong accreditation.  Then, be sure to make a note of the login numbers so you don’t forget.  You’re in!

It’s definitely convenient because now I can check emails, FB, Skype as long as I’m in or near the Palais.  Which is where I am most the day.  They open the Last Minute Access and we queue up, getting in easily.  There must be some open seats.  I really enjoy the movie.  It’s got a unique tone, bouncing from funny to dark.  This isn’t an easy thing to do, but I think Jody Foster pulled it off.  And of course Mel Gibson is great in it.

Afterwards I head back to La Bocca for a nap before I meet my connection for the AMFAR benefit.  They got me on the list as a volunteer and there is an orientation meeting at 5 pm.  I take the Gare de Bosquet train into Cannes.  It’s a short smooth ride to the Cannes station, located a couple streets back from the Croisette.  The hotel where we are meeting is right behind the train station and I finally suss out its location, bumping into the girls in the street.  We walk in together.  I’m a little overdressed, already tuxed up for the night.  But no one seems to mind as we meet to go over information about the benefit.  It’s held at the Hotel Du Cap!

Getting into this hotel is high on my to-do list.  I found out about it after I got home from Cannes last year.  It’s in Antibes.  It’s where all the big stars stay and it’s one of the best hotels in the world.  Getting into the AMFAR benefit is also on my to-do list, so I will be able to kill two birds with one stone.  I volunteer to work the Green Room, even though I have no stage managing experience.  I don’t know who’s performing yet, but I will be right there with them.  “Mr. West you’re on in 5″.  I’m hoping Kanye West plays.  I have no reason to expect this, but he is in town.  Why wouldn’t he be at the most prestigious event in Cannes?

The benefit isn’t until Thursday.  I leave with my information on where to meet, job assignment, etc.  I rush down to the Palais for the Jean-Paul Belmondo tribute in the Debussy theater.  In line I meet the rudest American girl.  They’re always American.  We are next to each other in line, so I try to start up a conversation.  She’s pretty, but I’m not hitting on her.  I’m just bored.  Besides, I could throw a rock and hit 5 model-quality European girls – beautiful girls are a dime a dozen over here.  Now, I’ve met plenty of sweet American girls who are happy to chat, but this one is a real headcase.  Despite both being the only Americans in line, both solo and standing side-by-side, she ignores my attempts at conversation.  When I ask “what brings you to Cannes” (my standard question), I actually have to touch her on the arm to get her attention.  “I’m in the industry,” she says tersely.  What?  The film industry?!  OMG!   Are there a lot of people in the film business here?  That’s what I want to say, but I just give up trying to talk to her.  She’s cold as a witch’s you-know-what in a brass bra doing push-ups in the snow.   She’s jerking her mane of black hair around like a bird, looking for someone, checking texts.  Or at least that’s what she’s pretending to do.  I chat with the guy behind me, a French composer I met earlier.  When they let us in, I have moved a bit in front of her in line.  As we are ushered into the theater, I hear heels clippety-clopping on the marble floor behind me.  She rushes up and jumps in front of me, pushing her way through the door first.  She ends up sitting in the row directly ahead of me.  I’m trying to ignore her but she keeps jerking her ahead around, looking back towards the entrance of the theater.  No one comes to meet her.  She sits in her seat all alone, talking to no one.  Once during the documentary, she turns around and asks the guy beside me to stop kicking her seat.  I resist the urge to kick her seat throughout the rest of the film.  It’s funny, she’s here to pay respect to the star of Breathless. That movie really captured her type: the crazy American woman.

Jean-Paul Belmondo arrives and is greeted like royalty.  We are on our feet clapping forever.  The documentary is very interesting and I learn a lot about the man, especially his post-Breathless stuff.  Claudia Cardinale is there, Jean Roquefort, a lot of people I don’t recognize.  Thierry Fremaux, the head honcho of Cannes, shows up and gives a speech.  I really need to learn French.

Claudia Cardinale to the far left, Belmondo and Thierry with the mic.

Afterwards I meet up with three friends and I call a writer I met from Germany.  He invites us to the Chinese party on the Majestic Barriere: A long private pier that extends out into the sea.  The lady at the door lets in everyone in my group but me.  I wait a few minutes and then state my case again, this time a little more forcefully.  The man beside her asks for a business card and he lets me in.  I swear it’s just a test to see how determined you are.  I enter the party and walk down the pier, just in time to witness the most spectacular fireworks show I’ve ever seen. There are two cannons off the end of the pier and they assault the sky with a barrage of explosions.  Chinese music blares from speakers.  I’ve never seen fireworks from this close before.  It’s breathtaking.  I pull out my camera and catch the tail end, but it doesn’t do it justice.

There’s champagne, plates of hors d’oeuvres, fresh crepes, trays of amazing sweets.   This is by far the best party I’ve been to in Cannes.  I find my friends and we hang out for a bit.  They’re playing American music.  Hip-hop, James Brown, Michael Jackson.  Perfect dance music.  I want a copy of the playlist.  I look at my watch and realize it’s after 1:00 am.  I should go.  I have a bus to catch.  I make it home and I turn in at 3am.  Looks like I’m stuck on the 3a – 12p sleeping shift after all.

See you tomorrow.

Grayson Wolfe

I got into Tree of Life.  A lovely French actress I met has tickets somehow and we meet this morning in front of the Palais Casino.  I’m easy to spot in my midday tux.  A tux isn’t necessary for earlier screenings but why not?  I’ll wear a tuxedo for Terrence Malick any time of day.  Plus, I don’t want to go back to La Bocca to change later.  We have an hour to kill so she escorts me to a happy hour on the other side of the Palais, more white tents I’ve yet to explore.  A jovial bartender is slinging drinks and there are hors d’oeuvres to be had.  I meet a composer, among other things, and we head off to the 15:00 screening.

We queue for Balcony seats and walk the red carpet, albeit under the afternoon sun.  Inside the theater, it’s packed.  We end up high in the theater and a little off-center.  But I’m not complaining.  The screen is so huge that any seat is a good seat.  After chatting up our neighbor (a director), the magical Cannes logo appears and we’re off to the races!

**SPOILER ALERT**

If you’ve never seen a Terrence Malick film here’s what you can expect:  Beautiful Cinematography, Inner Monologues, Elliptical Editing, Slow Pace, and an emphasis on Nature.  Tree of Life has all that, but on top of that, it is the most “Artsy” film Malick has made.  He’s only made 5:  Badlands, Days of Heaven, Thin Red Line, The New World, and now Tree of Life.  To me, this is the film he’s been waiting to make his whole career.  It incorporates his love of nature, especially underwater photography, and it is epic in scale.  Malick tackles big questions in this film.  This is a film about Man’s relationship with God.  It is never preachy and it is absolutely beautiful.  There are scenes where the divine visuals mixed with the choral soundtrack bring tears to my eyes.  There hasn’t been a film like this since 2001.  It even shares a similar structure, playing out in 4 basic blocks.

As I watch this 2 and 1/2 hour, uncompromising, absolute work of art, I think: the balls on this guy.  How did he ever get this film made?  Granted he’s Terrence Malick, and it has Brad Pitt in it, but this isn’t commercial in any way.  This is a new form of movie-making, a new genre even.  I can’t believe he got this through the system.  Then I think:  how is this going to play at the multiplex?  I can’t imagine what a teenage girl who goes in thinking “ooh Brad Pitt” is going to think of this.  Once again, Brad Pitt proves he has immaculate taste in movies.  He only works with the best directors in the world.  This is an absolute gem of a film and I wish it massive success.

**END OF SPOILERS**

The applause afterwards is respectful but it’s far from rapturous.  I think everyone is still trying to process what they’ve just seen.  We file out of the theater and I part ways with my generous companion, thanking her again for getting me into this.  I feel so honored to see a Terrence Malick film at Cannes.  This may be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  Who knows when he’ll make a movie again!

I grab a bite to eat, check my emails, and head out  to meet up with one of my producer friends from last year.  We have a great time, ending up in a very intimate party at The Carlton with an open bar.  We leave with swag bags complete with perfume, cologne, and mini-bottles of Cointreau.  We finish the night in The Martinez.  He has scripts to read, and I have a bus to catch.  We plan to meet up tomorrow for The Beaver, the Mel Gibson / Jodie Foster movie.  I love Mel Gibson.  And I still haven’t seen any hard evidence he’s the crazy man on the tape.

On the way back down the strip of hotels, I keep my eyes open, just in case I have a chance to redeem myself for my botched Ryan Gosling encounter.  Almost in the same exact spot, I run into no one other than MICHEL HAZANAVICIUS!!!

With him is the beautiful and talented lead actress from The Artist, BERENICE BEJO!  I can’t believe it.  I stop and tell him how much I loved The Artist, gushing about how it was one of my most anticipated films and how I think it’s a new classic.  He is very kind and I walk along with them, talking about Jean Dujardin and how brilliant it was to put him in a silent American movie.  I ask him if he has any interest in American writers and if so, I have an idea for him.  It’s a very good idea, if I may say so myself, and one that needs the next Cary Grant in it.  I get a picture with each of them and we exchange emails, promising to follow up.

This photo directed by Michel Hazanavicius. What happened to my face!

I bid them “Bon Soir” and I head away ecstatic.  I stop in for a celebratory ice cream cone, and realize I’m low on Euros.  After the ice cream cone, I’m 30 cents short for the bus home!  I’ll figure it out on the way, I think.  Two French girls stop me and ask to use my phone.  I tell them I don’t have signal, but can I have 30 cents?  This isn’t a good deal for them.  I reach the bus station and bump into a kindly bus driver from a few nights before.  I tell him I am 30 cents short because of the celebratory ice cream cone I bought after meeting two celebrities. He walks me to another bus line and waits with me.  I guess he’s going home.  He talks to the driver and gets me on the bus for free.  I shake his hand and give him a huge “thank you”.  I get back home with 70 cents in my pocket and a million dollar smile on my face.  What a day!

See you tomorrow,

-Grayson Wolfe

A strange thing happens in Cannes.  You are confronted with a sea of new faces every day, and you don’t want to tune them out because you may miss sighting an acquaintance or a celebrity.  Your brain is constantly trying to process these new faces, matching them with those in your mental rolodex:  Facebook contacts seen but never met, celebrities, people you’ve just met this week, etc.  You see ghosts, look-a-likes, phantoms.

Yesterday, I noticed 5 people walking around with what we would deem a polio crutch:

At first glance it looks like polio is making a resurgence in the South of France.  Then I figure this is the only version of crutches they have, more functional than our simple wooden ones.  Turns out it’s called a “forearm crutch”.  But how many people do you see with crutches on a daily basis?  I’ve seen 5 yesterday and 1 today.  No wooden canes, just these sympathy-inducing uber-crutches.

Next, I head into the Palais on a fool’s errand to see if there’s any possible tickets left for The Artist.  No dice.  All the showings are sold out and have been since early this morning.  I even throw a message on FB.  I try to call in any help I can think of, to no avail.  I’m desperate to see this movie on opening night.  There’s something addictive about seeing a movie at the Red Carpet premiere.  The glamour of the tuxedos and gowns, the excitement of sitting in the same theater as the Director and Cast…  You can see the same films earlier in the day, but it’s just not the same.  But it’s not just the Red Carpet.  I am anticipating this film because it is directed by Michel Hazanavicius has one of my favorite actors: Jean Dujardin.

For my money, no one can touch this guy right now.  Handsome, funny, charismatic.  He has an Old Hollywood movie star quality.  He is an expert mime, using his whole body to act – a dying art.  I think he could be huge in America, and I have been wanting to see him do something with crossover potential that shows off his talent for physical comedy. Turns out The Artist is that movie.

But I don’t know this yet.  As 18:00 draws near, I realize there is no way in to the premiere.  No tickets to be had.  I walk to the entrance of the Palais and peer through the crowds to the other side of the Red Carpet, checking out the Last Minute Access line.  A throng is already gathered.  I don’t want to try my luck there again after getting shut down twice in a row.  It looks impossible.  But I like impossible missions.

Over the next hour, I will become James Bond. (I have the tux).  Earlier in the day, I came up with a plan – A way into the Palais without a ticket.  I didn’t know if I was going to have to use it, but it was my back-up plan.  It’s risky, but it seems crazy enough to work.  And guess what – it does!  I wish I could talk about it, but out of self-preservation I will withhold the details.  I don’t want anyone to rip off this technique because you’ll mess it up for me!  Let’s just say it’s not for the faint of heart.

Once inside, I have one last problem.  I don’t have a ticket.  Every time I’ve been in the Palais, they check your ticket multiple times as you head up to your seat.  What am I going to do?  I come up with a cover story.  I’ll say I just stepped out to use the bathroom and “mon femme” has my ticket in her purse, up at the seat.  This is a pretty good story, as this is a common occurrence.  If I were to say, “I don’t have a ticket, I’m last minute access”, they could easily call my bluff if they haven’t opened the gates to Last Minute Access yet.  And odds are they’re not going to.  This is a huge movie in France, there won’t be many empty seats.  I walk up to the entrance to the balcony, with two men in tuxedos posted out front.  I am ready with my story.  I walk past them confidently with the air of a man rushing back to his seats.  They say nothing to stop me.  Ahead of me on the next landing are two Cannes girls.  I start up the stairs to my left and then change my mind, going up on the right as if looking for my seat.  This also brings me to the center rows, the best viewing angle.  I make my way up, unimpeded past three more ushers.  I glance around for an open seat and I start to worry I won’t find one.  The entire balcony is truly full.  No one from Last Minute Access is getting in here tonight.  As I near the very top of the balcony, I look to my left and see one empty seat.  I gesture to the girl sitting beside it and she indicates it’s open.  Relieved, I “pardón” my way down the aisle and take my seat.  My heart is pounding with exictement.  I did it!  And I didn’t even have to use my cover story.  I am all the way at the top, safe and sound.  There’s no way they’ll spot me up here.  No one’s even looking for me.

I ask the girl next to me if she speaks English and she says yes.  Besides our conversation, I will not hear my native tongue once inside the Lumiere.  Seems everyone in here is French.  Except me, James Bond.  We talk about the French movie stars coming up the red carpet, the video feed playing on the movie screen.  I write down a couple names I don’t recognize, to check out later.  I smile, thinking of everyone waiting to get inside.  Take that, Last Minute Access.  Michel Hazanavicius, Jean Dujardin, and the rest of the cast enter the theater and to applause.  From the top of the balcony I can’t see them.  But the video cameras follow them and they are projected on the screen.  They take their seats, the lights dim, and the movie begins.

**SPOILER ALERT**

I knew little about the film going in.  I heard it was experimental, but there are some surprises I wasn’t expecting that I’m glad I didn’t know beforehand.  Therefore, unless you want me to spoil those for you (the media probably will anyway), stop reading.

The screenshot above is black-and-white – turns out so is the movie.  It’s also shot in the old 1.33 ratio.  Hazanavicius seems to have an affinity for all things retro.  OSS 117 was a perfect replica of a 1960s movie.  I loved that film, that’s why I’m here now.  As the first ten minutes of the movie pass, I realize something else – it’s a silent film!  Hazanavicius made a feature-length silent film!  It’s set in Old Hollywood, with Jean Dujardin playing a silent film star.  Produced by the Weinstein Co., with John Goodman, Malcolm McDowell, and English title cards.  This is brilliant!  This is the perfect way to have Dujardin in an American movie.  We can’t hear is voice, so for all we know, he’s American.

I loved the movie.  It is lighthearted, watchable by any audience, and shows how unnecessary words can be.   Pure cinema.  There is a dance number towards the end of the movie that is incredible.  Jean Dujardin is just ridiculously talented.  And of course, so is Michel Hazanavicius.  As the dance number ends, Dujardin and his co-star Berenice Bejo turn to face the camera, arms outstretched.  The crowd bursts into spontaneous applause.  The mood in the room is electric.  I’ve never felt anything like it.  This is a movie about movies and we, the audience, have become the fourth wall.  It feels like we are inside the movie at this moment, in the same room as the actors on screen.  And actually, we are.  They are sitting down front.

**END OF SPOILERS**

As the film fades out, I jump to my feet and join the rapt applause, which turns into a 20 minute standing ovation.  (I forgot to use my stopwatch on my calculator watch, but I think it was 20 minutes).  This is why I came to Cannes.  Anything else that happens tonight is a bonus.  And more will happen.

Feeling high, invincible, and starving to death, I head from the Palais straight over to the local kiosk where I order a big cheeseburger-on-a-baguette: the “Formidable”.  I also get a Kronenbourg to celebrate.  I pulled off the impossible tonight.  I am ten feet tall.  I run over to the pavilions to use the wifi, and I finally am able to get in touch with the buyer I’ve been playing phone tag with.  He is in the Carlton right now, can I come over?  I rush over to the Carlton and meet with him for about an hour.  He explains what he is doing: a short film app.  He shows me how it works on an iPad, and it looks good.  He’s partnering with some of the biggest film schools in the country and is looking for good films, building a reputation for quality.  I like what I see so far.  We exchange info, I tell him I’ll send him a link to Sea of Trees, and I turn down an invitation to join him at a party.  Tree of Life is tomorrow, I need my rest.

As I walk back down the Croisette towards the bus station I am totally unprepared for my next celebrity sighting.  Ahead of me, stuffing money into a street beggar’s paper cup, stands RYAN GOSLING.  I pause in my tracks, mouth agape.  He looks at me.  “I loved Blue Valentine”, I say.  He just says “thanks” and walks off.  I can tell he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.  I saw Blue Valentine here last year, and I can’t wait to see him in Drive, later this week.  I think he’s one of the best actors we have right now.  I even have him in mind for a very specific project I am pitching at Cannes.  With all this running through my mind, I turn after him and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is “Hey!”.  The girl he is with turns around to look at me, but he just keeps going.  I can’t believe I just yelled that.  I say “Nevermind, I don’t wanna bother you” and keep going.  Ugh.  Here’s the dilemma when you meet a celebrity.  You don’t wanna come off as a jerk, but you don’t want to miss an opportunity.  I don’t ask actors for autographs or favors, but I feel I would actually be doing him a favor if I could pitch him our idea.  Oh well.  The best way to do that is through the proper channels.  But still.  If I was more on top of my game, I think I could’ve at least made something happen right then.  I make a mental note not to be taken unawares again.  I stop in for an ice cream cone.  I didn’t have any of this amazing ice cream last year.  I’m catching up.  I finish it as I reach the bus stop and head back to La Bocca, chatting up some AmPav volunteers on the way home.

Best day yet.  I actually make it to bed at a decent an hour.  Skype call to Will and then it’s curtains for the night.  See you tomorrow.

-Grayson Wolfe

Afterwards, I hit the AmPav, checking email, doing blog-based things until 1400.  Being in La Bocca, I have to leave by 1500 to be back down here tuxed up by 1700/5pm = happy hour.  So I head out to catch a bus, planning to grab a bite to eat on the way.  I make it through a huge crush of people surrounding the Red Carpet.  I guess there’s a screening going on.  I take to the back streets in search of a pizza.  I blame my quick crash on the sugary Tiramisu I had for breakfast.  I have gone from 0 to starving to death in the blink of an eye.  Finally I find a place that sells pizza and I take a seat.  After what feels like 10 minutes, I give up on anybody serving me or even saying hello.  They are busy, but I don’t have time to wait, so I run over to a little kiosk.  I order their deluxe sandwich: Le Top Max.  I can’t make out all the toppings written in French, but I roll the dice.  I’m so hungry I get a Snickers just to “satisfy” me until he makes my sandwich.  My Snickers is gone in seconds and then I suffer for what feels like FOREVER as he makes my sandwich.  I am the only one in line.  He finally pulls out a huge round piece of bread, lays down lettuce, steak, cheese, onions, tomato, ham, and puts it in the Panini toaster thing.  Ok, almost ready, I think.  But no.  It sits there and sits there and sits there and sits there.  I don’t know if I’ve ever been this hungry before.  It sits there some more.  Finally he pulls it from the toaster and delivers it over to me.  It is the size of a small pizza.  I grab a seat and tuck in to maybe the best sandwich I have ever had.  It is absolutely delicious.  I can honestly say it was worth the wait.  It’s not a panini.  It’s two big round slices of crusty French bread.  I guess that’s why it took so long.  Le Top Max indeed.  I may have to come back here everyday.  I finish half of it and then rush over to catch a bus, which pulls up just as I arrive.  I finish the rest of the sandwich on my ride to La Bocca, knowing I’ll be good for the rest of the day.

As I change into my tux, I put in a skype call to Will and we catch up briefly.  No time to shave.  I grab one of my mini-bottles of red wine and head over to catch the shuttle.  On the way, I consider the headline: American screenwriter Grayson Wolfe found dead in La Bocca.  Unshaven, clutching a bottle of cheap wine.  I take care not to be hit by any cars.  I drink my wine in transit because I never seem to have time to sit and enjoy a quiet glass.  And it is a nice social lubricant.  The shuttle driver is playing American hip-hop.  As a gentleman on the radio named “Dash Money” informs me, this is “Murder Music”.  Next up is Lil Wayne.  I like it.  When we arrive I can jump out of the free shuttle with that limo swagga.  On the shuttle I see a director I met the day before, tuxed up for the Pirates: On Stranger Tides screening.  Lucky.  I don’t feel the need to see it here, I planned to wait for the DVD anyway, but it would be fun to walk the carpet with Johnny Depp.  Incidentally, the French title is Pirates: The Fountain of Youth.  A bit of a spoiler, but it’s interesting how the titles change country to country.

I tell him I’m going to see Wu Xia tonight.  It’s a Chinese martial arts film with Donnie Yuen that has some Weinstein Co. involvement.  I’ve heard rumors of a remake along with US distribution.  A Chinese girl sitting in front of me corrects my pronunciation and then I chat her up.  She has a film here she’s promoting.  We walk together from the shuttle drop-off to the Palais and then part ways.

I am meeting my buyer contact at the Short Film Corner at 5pm.  I’m here 10 minutes early, so I post up at the bar.  A Q+A session is winding down next door.  5pm is Happy Hour at the Short Film Corner.  That means free beer.  They have coolers lined with Stella Artois, but no one’s getting any until the Q+A session is over.  As we draw closer to 1700, the staff puts out some pretzels and big French jellybeans.  The Frenchman at my right is wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt and repeatedly asking about the “bier”.  Behind us, the crowd has turned into a seething mob.  I point over our shoulders and say “Le Mob?”  He distractedly nods.  He is one of them.  Beer Zombies.  People are reaching over me for jellybeans, pretzels, anything they can get their hands on.  I realize I’m never going to find the buyer.  I don’t even know what he looks like.  I also come up with an idea:  If you want people to see your movie, give away free beer.  You make a beer garden, with a huge projection screen, and lock them in so they can’t leave until the movie’s over.  Maybe we’ll do that next year.  At about ten after, they start handing out the Stellas.  Two apiece.  I only want one.  As I turn to head back through the crowd, it is the exact same feeling at a concert when you’re heading away from the mosh pit.  No one makes room for you to leave, even though you’re giving them a better spot.  I sip my beer and do a quick pass, hoping the buyer will somehow call out to me.  I told him I’d be wearing a tux, and I’m the only one.  Here’s the thing about tuxing up early:  You look over-dressed until about 7pm.  Then you look important.  Either way, you attract attention.  Not a bad thing in Cannes.

I give up on the buyer and head up to the Salle Mediterranee to see about possible tickets.  I bump into the Chinese girl from the bus.  She invites me to come along with her to a cocktail party.  As we chat, UMA THURMAN rushes past us, surrounded by 6 bodyguards.  She is tall.  She is on the jury this year and she has an intent look on her face as she rushes off to the Pirates screening.  As Nick Nolte said somewhere: When you’re famous you go through the buildings.  My new companion and I head out for the Cinema Du Monde pavilion, where the champagne hour has apparently already passed.  (Happy Hours are omnipresent around 5pm.  Make a note of that.)  I meet some cool people – a French Actor and a Belgian PR / Distribution guy who I talk about The Perfect Breed to.  He’s here promoting Amsterdam Heavy and a friend of mine worked on that film.  We talk about collaboration and casting.  We all exchange cards and plan to follow up stateside.  I excuse myself and head back over to the Palais. Wu Xia is playing in a couple hours and I need to get a good spot in line.

I pop in to the UK Pavilion area again and finally get in touch with the buyer.  I apologize for my Skype problems and we plan to meet tomorrow.  I grab an ice cream cone and jump in the queue for Wu Xia. It is playing in the Salle du Soixantième, one of the many smaller theaters in the Palais.  This is a next-day screening, which is badge access, no need for tickets.  The Soixantième is located right inside the International Pavilion gates.  I’m here an hour and a half early.  Perfect timing, since there’s hardly anyone in line.  I chat up the guy next to me, a quiet Italian kid who is studying film at NYU.  Later his Indian friend joins us and we talk film.  I love meeting fellow filmmakers, especially film students.  You never know who is going to be the next Scorsese or Spike Lee.  I watch one of their short films on their iPhone.  Great idea!  I forgot you could load videos on your iPod app like that.  The gates open and we are ushered upstairs to the theater on the second level.  This is one my favorite views of the fest:

Not the best photo, but from up here, you can see the Majestic in the background and the Hotel-Lined Croisette winding its way around the coast.  Wu Xia was really enjoyable.  I am anti-spoiler so don’t worry.  The fight scenes were great, but the script was also very interesting.  I had no idea where the movie was going.  It’s not what I thought it was going to be, judged only by the poster, and I like being surprised.  One interesting detail was the credits.  They looked very last-minute, cheesy font, Cannes credits.  I love seeing movies that are just finished or still works in progress.  I go on imdb to check out the film afterwards and there is not enough votes for a star rating.  That’s what I’m talking about. I hear this one will be heading to America and playing in a theater near you, so hopefully you will see it.

I had a great time talking to the two NYU students.  They have my card so maybe we’ll meet up again.  We part ways and I head back toward the bus station when I change my mind at the last minute and jump in the Last Minute Tickets line.  Bollywood: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told is playing and I want to see it.  It’s a retrospective of Bollywood cinema, something I want to learn more about.  I tried to get tickets earlier but was unsuccessful.  Plus, it’s playing late @ 23:45.  But I figure if I get in, great.  If not, I’ll go get some sleep.  The first 4 people in line actually get in, as 4 unused invitations appear, but the rest of us are turned away.  That makes my record 1-3.  Not great.  I get the impression that unless someone passes you a hard copy ticket, the odds of getting in through Last Minute Access are very slim.  But it’s better than not trying.

I head home on the bus, chatting up a French guy from Marseille.  He has come here to attend the festival even though he’s not in the industry.  He can still get into some of the sidebar screenings and we share many of the same favorite directors.  I love the fact that there are Cineastes all over the world and we can all speak the same language of film.  We have the same vocabulary words:  “Coen Brothers, Leone, Tarantino, Lynch.”  Movies are more than just $, they create relationships with the people who watch them.  We all share them and treasure them and are influenced by them.  Getting a sense of what’s going on in World Cinema is one of the best advantages of coming to Cannes.  As Americans, we are often ignorant of huge movie stars from other countries.  But they know ours.  It’s humbling.  And it means we should make the best movies we can.  There’s a world of people watching.

See you tomorrow.

-Grayson Wolfe

Best new tip: Take a shuttle bus instead of public transit.  This works if you are staying outside of Cannes in La Bocca.  Many of the hotels have their own shuttle buses.  My closest hotel is Pierre Vacances. The Maeva has one as well.  Now you can’t take it BACK after 1700ish, but you can take them TO CANNES all day at 15 minute intervals.  At least it’s supposed to be 15 minutes.  Today it felt like 30-45.  Probably because I was trying to be down to the Pavilions at noon sharpish.  I had people to meet.

Finally the bus came and I realized one downside to this technique: you might not make it on the bus.  Because it is in fact not a bus, it is a van.  Maybe a 10-seater at best.  So I surreptitiously jumped to the front of the line and climbed aboard.  (I had people to meet).  There are several cool things about taking the shuttle van:

#1 – Half the time, if that.  I got from La Bocca to the Palais in Cannes in 10 minutes.  It would’ve taken 20-30 on the public bus.

#2 – Nice scenic route along the beach.  Unlike the public bus, which slowly winds its way through the city, the shuttle takes you right along the lovely blue Mediterranean Sea.  After all you are on the Riviera.  Enjoy a view of Le Cote D’Azur.

#3 – It drops you off closer.  The shuttle stops right at the barrier to through traffic which is at the Palais Casino.  You get off and you’re right there. The main bus station is a good 100 meters / football field further away.  Not a small thing when you are walking all day!

#4 – It’s Free!

Even in the shuttle I couldn’t escape the shadow of Auto-tune.  Some new song which I didn’t recognize.  I always end up making contacts on the public bus and I was a little worried I couldn’t do so on the more private shuttle.  I didn’t on the first trip, but later, when I came back into town Tuxed up, I would meet an Actor, a Producer, and a Director.  With me riding shotgun, we had a whole film crew!

My goal today is to make contact with people I had met last year and had connected with via FB prior to Cannes.  I go to the American Pavilion (AmPav) and start making Skype calls.  I realize Skype sucks in the American Pavilion.  There are so many people on the internet that it clogs the bandwidth.  I try to call the buyer I’m supposed to meet and the phone keeps cutting out.  I finally give up and walk down to the German Pavilion.  All the Pavilions have Wifi access, but you need the code to get online.  I got the German code from a girl the night before, so I sit outside in a shaded corner and am finally able to connect with nearly everyone on my list.  I set up a meeting for 530p (1730) outside the UK Pavilion.  I also run into the Palais and check to see if any tickets are available for tonight’s screenings.  One of my connections has a ticket for Wu Xia, playing at 12:45 am.  I really want to see it, based on its poster alone:

“Wu Xia” is Chinese martial arts and I like the look of this Le Samourai-esque character on the right.  But 12:45 am is too late for me.  I plan to see a day-after screening at 21:45 on Saturday instead.

As it nears 15:00, I head for the shuttle bus back to La Bocca so that I can change into my tuxedo and be back down for tonight’s meetings/screenings by 17:00.  The shuttles pick you up where they drop you off, in front of the Palais Casino.  I wait for about 15 minutes and up pulls the Pierre Vacances shuttle.  When I reach La Bocca, I have just enough time to pick up a Baguette, change, and head back.  I guzzle down a Red Bull and take along a mini bottle of Red Wine for the road.  The wine comes in a 4-pack, J.P. Chenet Cabernet/Syrah.  I have no way of knowing if this is a decent wine or the French social equivalent of Thunderbird.  Tastes okay though.  One thing I like about being here is you can walk down the street with a drink.  I can even finish my wine in the shuttle.  Just like in Las Vegas.

I meet with two of my friends who are developing a very interesting script called Hades Bridge.  We have a very nice chat at a cafe a few streets back from the hustle and bustle of the Croisette.  I go back to the Pavilions, check my emails and I see on Twitter there is a yacht party for Foreign Investors.  I find the Yacht and walk right up in my tux.  The door girl blocks my path, holding a clipboard.

HER: “What’s your name, Sir?”

ME: “Grayson Wolfe”

HER: “Hm. That name sounds familiar… Sorry I don’t see you on here.  Who are you with?”

ME: “What company am I with?”

HER: “Yeah. You have a contact here?”

ME: “Oh. Yeah.”

HER: “What’s his name?”

ME: “John… Barnes.”

HER: “There is not even anyone on the list with that name, Sir.”

ME: “You know what?  I wonder if I have the wrong yacht…”

GUARD: “What party are you looking for Sir?”

ME: “It was an investment party, but the info they gave me was pretty vague.  You know, I’m sure that’s what it is. Wrong yacht. I’m sorry.  Lemme go see if I can find the right one…”

I walk off, pulling out my cel phone (no service) and “reading” my texts.  I hold the phone up as I compare my “text” to the names of the yachts, until I am out of their sight.  Oh well, at least I tried.

Afterwards I head to Last Minute Access to try a repeat of last night, seeing if I can get a ticket for Polisse.  I run into a Brazilian guy I met a few days earlier on the bus and I join him and his two friends in line.  As we wait, I pull out my manual bowtie and attempt to tie it.  I had planned to hit a Hotel bathroom or something, but I forgot.  So I struggle to tie it with no mirror.  The girl in the group holds up her compact, but I still can’t get it so I walk over to one of the lovely Cannes girls working the Red Carpet.  She is sweet enough to help me:

Despite my now-tied bowtie and an hour waiting, all of us waiting for Last Minute tickets are dismissed.  There are no available seats.  Apparently, Polisse is rather a big French movie starring a French rapper.  My three new friends and I mill around the kiosk right by the entrance to the Pavilions, a big hangout at night.  We drink some Kronenbourgs, I have a “hotdog” – a wiener wrapped in French bread with spicy mustard – and we head over to the American Pavilion to see what’s up.

Earlier, the Brazilian guy misheard my English as I was talking about my “Day Job”.  He thought I said “Gay Job”.  We were shouting at each other above the din of American hip-hop songs at the Red Carpet, so it took about 10 minutes to explain the difference between Gay Job and  Day Job.  Now, as I lead them to the AmPav, there is a “Queer Party” in full swing, evidenced by the Rainbow Flag out front.  He glances over at me. This isn’t making me look any straighter. We make our way in, where the Americans are gouging people for drink tickets:  5 Euros for a Coke.  That’s like 7.50!  And they don’t take U.S. dollars in the American Pavilion.  If this was a fundraiser or something that might make sense, but as far as I know, the only people benefiting from the $ is the AmPav itself.  As I try to explain this system to my foreign friends, I feel ashamed.  At least the entrance was free.  As I am buying a drink ticket, a Cougar in front of me asks me if I’m gay.  I say no.  “I’m not either!”, she says.  I can tell she’s been drinking.  She tells me I am the first man in a tuxedo she’s seen.  Then she clarifies.  “I’ve seen other tuxedos but you… you have a nice face.”  Then she tells me she is a Lesbian.

The party itself is pretty cool.  Good music, people dancing.  Lots of heterosexuals.  I run into Chantal, a French girl I tried to meet up with earlier.  We shout at each other over the music, catching up, and I am introduced to some more people, Directors, Producers.  I bump into my friends from earlier and we all head out in search of a Bathroom aka Washroom aka WC aka Toilette.  Afterwards we hit the kiosk again for another round of Kronenbourgs.  They are going to stay out partying, but I have to be up early tomorrow so I bid them all Bonne Nuit.

Bus to La Bocca, blog before bed, skype to Will, and I’m off to Never-Never Land.  Until “Dimanche”.

-Grayson Wolfe