What strange and wondrous creatures we humans are, with our bizarre rituals. None more so than the celebrity walk down the red carpet. It has become an almost sacred affair, a threshold moment for the chosen as they enter the temple, a journey across a short piece of no-mans land where time stops in a blazing flash of camera shutters, and where others look on in awe and wonder. And whilst the red carpet ritual is found all over the world – from Venice to Toronto, from Edinburgh to Melbourne – there is none more holy than Cannes.
If the festival cinema is a place of worship, then the Lumiere Theatre – a huge 2300-seater – is the grand cathedral, guarded carefully on all sides, and featuring the mother of all red carpets.
Every night (and a couple of times during the day) the doors to the Lumiere Theatre are opened, allowing select ticket holders entry. But – like most rituals – it’s a carefully controlled process. I know because I managed to get a ticket to the premiere of Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank, and I joined the ritual as an anxious novice.
The game starts on the main street in Cannes – La Croisette – which is closed off for half a kilometer each side of the theatre to all vehicles except official limousines carrying the stars. Mortals lucky enough to be blessed with a ticket must walk, and will slowly be corralled by a series of low white fences into a narrow queue that leads up the street and then towards the terraces at the base of the theatre’s entrance. This is where the red carpet climb starts. Every few meters along the fences are clusters of officials – all dressed Agent Smith style. They check tickets, identification and most importantly clothes. The ticket makes it clear: men must wear a tuxedo. It doesn’t say anything about women. One in front of me is wearing a piece of silk – perhaps a metre of it at most – wrapped strategically. The shoes are nice though.
As I was shuffled closer and closer towards the first group of Agent Smiths, I wished I was a woman. I didn’t have a tux and there were none for hire. I reckon I could have done something special with shimmery fabric though. I’m handy with knots. But no, I am wearing the only suit I have with me, and a dress shirt and bow tie. I’m not sure I can get away with it. Ahead of me people are being ejected by a large African Agent Smith. No doubt for some fashion infringement. I hide behind the woman in the silk scarf-thingy. Her partner has an expensive tux. He glares at me.
Despite my fears I make it through several check-points. It seems that my papers are in order and the suit has them fooled. Only one more Red Carpet Guard to go. He turns and looks down the line at me. He looks like Gianni Versace, and I’m sure he has a nose for faux tuxedos. He’s really checking everyone out. A guy in a brown jacket gets nabbed ahead of me. “Brown jacket” I hear myself say, “what was he thinking!”. Then I realize I’m done for.
Damn – I am so close I can see the strands of red pile. Then miraculously a limo pulls up and out gets Kim Ok-Vin (the actress who stars in Thirst, a crazy Korean vampire film directed by Chan-Wook Park). Everyone is distracted and I slide past the Versace man and onto the red carpet. I made it. I look up. There it is – the Lumiere – and then I hear the incredible sound of a thousand cameras clicking.
Not for me of course – Kim Ok-Vin is one of the most photogenic actresses in the world, and she is making her way slowly up towards the theatre wearing a million dollar smile and a small piece of fabric. But it’s fanciful to follow a few steps behind and imagine for a little moment what this would be like. At the top of the steps I turn around and look back down at the media throng (all wearing tuxedos), the cheering fans, the queue snaked back along La Croisette, and the mass of people beyond, all taking in the Festival atmosphere. Fireworks are going off further up the beach. It is a sacred moment of sorts.
Who needs a tux?
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