Cannes is an access-driven society. Without accreditation, the passes that show your worthiness to be a part of the madness, you are nothing. You are a bottom-feeder, and you are on the wrong side of the fence. Without a pass, security will call you sir and not mean it. Without a pass, you will see no films, visit no parties, get no freebies.
And believe me, at Cannes, you need freebies. You will pay the thick end of a fiver for beer on the Croisette, double that for breakfast. You can eat more cheaply once you move off the main drag, but the connected delegate has no need. At most of the pavilions that line the sea-front, you can expect to get gratis soft drinks and coffees, and in some cases continental breakfasts. Most manufacturers and national film councils will throw at least one party with free booze and canapes. Although it’s unlikely you’ll be able to snag an actual sit-down meal, you can do pretty well on giveaways. There are rumours of seasoned blaggers surviving the festival purely on what they can get from parties and pavilions.
Access is all. I can’t stress that highly enough. Access gets you seminars, free wi-fi, contacts, meeting places. Access means you can get things done. Access means you get this blog now, instead of when I get home. Without access, frankly, you may as well not be here at all.
And there are different levels of access. Allow me to elucidate. My pass lets me into most of the pavilions, apart from the two good ones, AmPav and Kodak. I blagged entry to the Kodak, and AmPav was £25. Both worth the trouble, if only to have as a refuge from the sun and the madness. My pass also gets me through the security at the front gate of the hotels, and a limited amount of screenings. It does not get me up the red carpet, or into the premieres or any of the film market screenings. I still have to hassle and queue for the screenings I do have access for, and I can’t book anything.
So, despite the fact that I have the ability to swan around Cannes like a Lord of the Cinema, and the poor general public fall from my path in awe and wonderment, I hold a sick jealousy at my core. Jealousy of the lucky few with the coveted red R on their passes. Jealousy of the glamourous creatures wafting up The Red Carpet, while I huddle at the foot like a supplicant, on the wrong side of the fence, locked away from the beauty.
The highlight of the day was on those very steps. U2 are in town promoting their new documentary U23D, and to promoted they played a couple of songs before the screening. So the Cannes Crew convened under a palm tree in clear view of the Palais, and enjoyed them tear through Vertigo and Where The Streets Have No Name. A rocking way to end a crazy day.
The strange thing about the Cannes Film Festival is how difficult it is to actually see a film. Without a pass, of course, you’re stuffed. But even with one, it’s an logistical nightmare. Because there’s so much to see, you get blinded by choice, and the fluid nature of the way the days pan out mean that you frequently organise yourself away from seeing the films you want. Then of course, the sheer human need for sleep and food, combined with the weird scheduling choices (who honestly wants to watch a film at 8 in the morning?) stops you seeing a lot of good stuff. This weekend, I will be lucky if I see five films. Too busy doing other stuff, I’m afraid.
Latest: just about to join the queue for Michael Moore’s SICKO. Causing ructions already, apparently, so it should be good fun.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 