Happy Birthday, John Wayne

It was a slow last full day for me in Cannes. Once again, Graham and Dave’s great plans to get an early start were scuppered by the need to get more than 4 hours sleep. Clive’s invitation to a seminar at the UK tent at 11 went unanswered as I was still in bed. So, once again it was 2 in the afternoon before we got into town.
I meet Clive, check the emails (ooh, Facebook invites! Hello Amy, Alexander and Steve! Be my friends!) and amble back to my new secret favourite restaurant for lunch. I have a salad. I need some vitamins. I have a beer with it. I didn’t say I was on a health kick.
The plan for the rest of the year is starting to coalesce. As a creative unit Sick Puppy Films is now a two-headed dog, which means we need to talk seriously to the non-active third member about where we take things. Worse case scenario: we walk away from the brand and start again with a new identity. I hope that doesn’t happen, but I’m not that sentimental about the red-eyed woofer not to let him go if nudge comes to yank. Meanwhile, we both have projects to write and develop, including the dormant Roleslay. It’s a good idea that deserves to be brought out into the world.
We spend the afternoon hitting the Film Market, targeting distributors with horror films in their catalouges. There’s a lot there. Then to the Short Film Corner for free drinks and finally, finally, I meet up with Flemming Jetmar, a friend who I’ve been cancelling on since Friday. A good move, as it’s his fast talking that gets us into the New Producer’s Association bash later that night. More shmoozing, more networking, more free booze.
Time to get a move on. It’s John Wayne’s birthday. In celebration, me and Clive are getting tuxed up and off to a 3D screening of the 1955 western Hondo. I dash back to the car and change. The sleeves of the jacket are way too short, the trousers are flapping round my ankles. I picked up Dave’s tux this morning, and believe me we are not physically similar.
I swear for a while, then change back into my jeans.
I meet Clive, who is looking extraordinarily dapper, the scumbag, and we scoot to the Palais.
Hondo is 85 minutes of pure entertainment. Utterly un-PC, and a joy for it. The Duke is made for 3D. His presence spills off the edge of the screen even without the stereoscopic assistance. It’s a simple story of the adventures of a half-breed despatch rider during the Apache wars, but told with charm and a poetic grace. It’s a spankingly clean print, and the 3D is nicely done – the audience ducked out of the way of arrows at least twice during the climactic battle. Well worth the effort.
I finally meet with the rest of the Cannes Crew at the Grand, where they swap stories of seeing Roman Polanski, Quentin Tarantino, Rosario Dawson and Sam Allerdyce at the Martinez Hotel.
Yes, you read that right. Roman Polanski.
The early night I could have done with simply didn’t happen. 4AM to bed, after packing.

Presenting a portrait of the author. I’m writing on the terrace of the American Pavilion, within sight and sound of the sea. I’m sipping a Perrier, and trying not to think about the 4 hours sleep I’ve managed. Things feel a bit woozy and frayed, but in a good way. I’m going to check a screening of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, then bundle into the Cannesmobile to Nice airport. Home and the embrace of my wife await. Back to the real world tomorrow.