From Canberra to Cannes Day 1

There is no way that a sane person – or a civilized one – would have done this. Canberra to Cannes straight through. 12000 kilometres involving five airports, four planes, three hours sleep and a bus. It took 40 hours door to door, mostly spent stuck between a tall Finnish family and a hard drinking Irish backpacker called Neil. The Finns had impossibly long legs and the Irishman impossibly tall stories. After listening for an hour or two to his pleasant drawl, I decided that Neil looked a little like Colin Farrell. “Never heard of him,” he said. “He’s an actor,” I pointed out. “Oh him”, said the Irishman, cracking open another can of pre-mixed rum and cola, “terrible tragedy wasn’t it. His passing like that.” When I suggested Farrell was still alive, Neil didn’t pause for breath. “There you go,” he said, “the luck of the Irish.”

Somewhere high above Eastern Europe Neil seemed to run out of stories asked me where I was heading. I had to explain my mission: to attend the Cannes Film Festival and find films for our own Festival in Australia’s capital city. Like most people, Neil had a vision of Cannes as a purely red-carpet affair: opening nights with A-list directors, high fashion parties in five-star beach-side hotels, wall to wall George Clooney. Like most people, Seamus hadn’t heard of the other Cannes – the film marketplace – where close to a thousand films are screened in rapid succession in small dark screening rooms, where buyers, programmers and Festival directors like me run from film to film, trying to see as many as possible, making notes, eating baguettes and cheese on the run.

On arrival in Cannes, the day before the festival starts, nothing seems ready: huge palms are being planted along the famous beachfront, massive banners are being suspended across the narrow streets of the holiday resort town (yes there’s one of George Clooney!), the beach is being dug up and replaced with marquees, and the inside of the main venue – the Palais des Festivals – is a shambles of temporary construction. Everywhere are beige-suited officials, elegant and quietly forceful: pointing here, denying access there.

This is a complex and carefully run event, and the first task is to work out what you actually have access to. You might think your expensive ticket entitled you to see all screenings – but the red-carpet world is invitation only. Over dinner with the crew of a French web-site here to cover the Festival, someone explains that its best not have anything to do with the 20 films “In Competition” that are screened in the prestigious Lumiere Theatre. “Even if you could get a ticket,” I am told, “you have to wear a tuxedo to get in – c’est terrible!”.

After collecting my badge and a backpack full of brochures and programme information, I settle down to the task to choosing what I will see on Day 1. I immediately rule out the opening night film “Up” – a Disney-Pixar animation directed by Peter Docter – it’s a red carpet special, and a sign of the commercial nature of this Festival. Not for me – my tux is back in Red Hill. Instead I wade through the information on the 82 films screening in the marketplace on Day 1. Yes 82 – and half of them seem to be American horror films. I can only get to a handful at the most. After a couple of hours I have a plan. Six films back to back from 10am to 8pm, including a Russian drama, a Spanish love story, and a documentary about the meaning of life. I couldn’t think of a better way for any sane, or civilized, person to spend the day.

Tagged as: cannes, cannes film festival, george cloney, movies, simon weaving