EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS

One experience that was deemed necessary for me to try before I left Cannes was a slice of flan. Flan is a thicker, less sweet version of a custard tart, served in wedges at most of the food kiosks. It’s substantial enough to replace lunch, and sits in your stomach once ingested like a custard flavoured brick.
I asked Clive to document my first encounter with the delight of flan.

I’ve been musing on the viability of the Short Film Corner, and have come to a conclusion. Although we have been lucky enough to garner accreditation through the SFC, I’m not convinced it’s the best showcase for our wares. Here’s my thinking.

There are 1700 films in the SFC this year, and getting to see any of them involves a complex procedure, knowing the code of the film you want to see, then booking a booth to view it in. You provide your own advertising, and the only place you can put it is up in the SFC. The only people that can get to the SFC have to have accreditation, and they have to fancy a trip to the arse-end corner of the Film Market to view anything.

In other words, we’re in a ghetto, with no chance of getting our wares out to a wider audience.

I have a couple of suggestions. Firstly, use the screens dotted around the Corner to show some short films. There seemed to be one or two shorts, presumably with some kind of funding deal, showing on permanent rotation. That was it. Surely it would make more sense to show a random selection of the wide range of shorts on offer, or even just excerpts, complete with a ticker or overlay giving the reference number.

Second, give the public a chance to see the shorts for themselves. Set up a booth outside the Palais, or in the lobby of a hotel, and let the public check out some films. The technologies are there, and it’s in everyone’s best interest to give the huge amount of material (which must by definition have some worth as it’s been selected in the first place for Cannes) the exposure it deserves. And who knows, it might give a film-maker the break they’re asking for.

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.

My head hurts. I’m aching. No coffee yet. There are pornstars sunning themselves by the pool under our kitchen window.

Cannes is beginning to get to me.

The Cannes Crew had a very slow start to Sunday, gradually easing ourselves into consciousness with copious bowls of coffee. Outside, the pool area is crammed with gorgeous girls sunning themselves. The boys drool. Pathetic, I know.

There’s a coach outside, emblazoned with the legend Woodman Entertainment. I have a sudden moment of clarity. Don’t ask me how I know this, but Pierre Woodman makes porn. The girls at the pool have got to be part of his stable. We are sharing our hotel with a bevy of pornstars.

We finally emerge into the light of Cannes at about 3pm. I check emails, and attempt and fail to post (curse you, Blogger) before joining what develops into a long and chaotic queue for Michael Moore’s SICKO. Fiona, who has busted her arm in a roller-disco accident, gets bumped by a nasty old French lady. I put a plaster on her plaster, and she soon feels better.

SICKO is a polemical, biased, utterly unbalanced, sentimental film with a loose interpretation of the facts and an argument that frankly … you can’t argue with. At all. He completely skewers the American healthcare industry. He shows us a medical system that is happy to allow a patient to choose which of the two fingers he’s had severed in a bandsaw accident he can afford to have reattached, and is now beginning to dump patients who can no longer afford treatment on the streets. Compared to that, even the NHS can be held up as a paragon of virtue and care. It’s going to cause a massive stink in the States, and is therefore essential viewing. I loved it.

After Sicko, I hooked up with a friend, one of the Lashers I met in Sweden. We manage to find a cheap place to eat, remarkably for Cannes. No, I’m not telling you where it is. My secret. Mine and Geir’s.

The cheapness ended there, as I hooked back up with the Cannes Crew, and we ended up in a beach bar and The Grand Hotel, before braving the scrum at the Petit Majestic, chasing the rumour of another party that proved not to be. I felt myself relaxing into the role of Cannes veteran. We drove home in a stuffed car, with our mate Cop jammed in the boot. He didn’t seem to mind.

Tomorrow is my last full day in Cannes. Still got to hit that red carpet.

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.

I’m writing this in view of the beach at Cannes, sitting amongst the movers and shakers and fakers and blaggers of the film industry. The sky is blue, the air is clear, the bullshit is flowing. It’s most cool.

My and my partner Clive are here, screening our short film GUNPLAY at the Cannes Short Film Corner, with, ooh, about a thousand other film-makers. But ours is special. Goddammit, it was shot on film. The flyers cost us a fortune! We deserve the love!

I’m a Cannes Virgin. First timer. Yokel. From the sticks. Despite the fact that I work in one of the most vital metropoli on the planet, this place makes me feel like a no-mark. I’ll elaborate.

I arrived yesterday, red-eyed and hazy after a disgustingly early flight. I spent the day chilling in Nice, while waiting for the rest of the Cannes Crew to arrive. Nice is … well, nice. Set in a bay, blue skies, blue seas, pretty markets, a beach full of youthful pultrichudinousness… I paid for my leering with a juicy case of sunburn to the nose and forehead. That’ll learn me.

We finally tooled away from Nice (we for the time being Graham of Oak Tree Films, Fiona of the Winner’s Production, et moi, Monsieur Sick Puppy. We snagged our apartment, changed our socks and headed into Cannes itself.

Cannes is, like Nice, a pretty coastal town snuggled into the concave edge of a bay. The difference here: the bay is heaving with mega-expensive yachts, and the town is heaving with film people. The main road through the sea front, Le Croisette, is the focus for most of the madness. This is where most of the screenings are, all the red carpet events, all the parties, all the madness. The Cannes Crew float around, Fi and G pointing out the sights while I goggle and feel my eyebrows disappear under my hairline. My poor, scorched hairline.

We get a drink or two, do a bit of shmoozing, and I start doling out business cards. I still feel like a faker, but as we shall discover, the festival is all about front.

Eventually, come midnight, we realise it’s time to give up and crash. Tomorrow we start in earnest.

Well, that was the plan. After picking up another member of the Cannes Crew, Oaktree Dave, and negotiating Cannes traffic, it was midday before we met up with Clive at the Palais, the hub of Cannes film activity. Clive began showing me where to pick up passes, and the places to visit every day for info and scamola.

The Film Market under the Palais is the place to go if you want to buy or sell films. And there is literally all kinds of everything here. Horror, pleasingly, seems to have a very strong presence. Favourite title so far is for a Roger Corman film called SuperGator. Apparently there are worse to be found. (UPDATE: the search has to be over. I have found a film called YO YO GIRL COP.)

It’s a heartening and disturbing experience wandering through the Film Market. Heartening just to see how huge the market for films really is. However, what seems to be selling is those movies that any right thinking person would flip past without an instant’s hesitation on a cable movie channel. Horror, thrillers, lame kids movies and lamer romcoms seem to be the norm. I’ve come to realise a couple of things quite early on. There really is nothing original under the sun, and it honestly is possible to flog a dead horse.

We visited our spiritual home at Cannes, the Short Film Corner, taking in a lecture on short film marketing (gist: get a Myspace page and market to a specialist group) and making sure our fliers were in a prominent position before decamping to a party on a flat above the Croisette. Graham, the silver-tongued dragon had somehow snagged invites. It was a prime position, with perfect views over the Palais where we could watch the red carpet for Les Chansons D’Amour. Strange to see the photographers scrum for pix of people you don’t recognise.

After that, a quick spin to the Majestic hotel, where we saw Daryl Hannah looking not quite human any more, and Gerard Butler brushed past Fiona, much to her delight. A lot of beautiful people in beautiful clothes, and bang slap in the middle the Cannes Crew, who had been on their feet all day. Time for a movie.

Which turned out to be Dario Argento’s SUSPIRIA. A digital remaster, that looked spotless. Argento’s famously intense colour palette screamed off the screen. The seats were awful though, and the lack of aircon meant we all dozed a bit. Still, you shouldn’t complain if it’s free, and in an added bonus Dario Argento himself introduced the film. Way cool, and the first time I’ve participated in a standing ovation for a horror film.

Home then. We were all flagging. Dave had been awake since 3.30, and he and Graham had a meeting the next day. Crash time for the Cannes Crew.

Next: a note on access, and another on parties.

Why does this remind me of this?

I mean apart from the mind-boggling amount of pointless work involved in each, of course…

Talk Crazy to Me: Once again the Something Awful comes up with a sheer gem of an article. Hideously NSFW, mostly because I defy any reader not to spit up laughing while reading it, and then have to explain why they’re finding this filth so funny.

Ok, and while we’re on the subject, my favourite comic strip ever.

Once again, so very very NSFW. Don’t say I dint warn yez.

I’m deeply gratified to see Mark Wallinger’s State Britain has been nominated for the Turner Prize this year. His work, championing the unstinting work of anti-war campaigner Brian Haw tells you all you need to know about the ridiculously paranoid lengths that the police and government will go to now to quash perfectly legitimate protest.
Brian is featured in the documentary 24 Hours In London, (yes all right, shameless plug) and his appearance is one of the film’s highlights. His passion and integrity is something to be celebrated as a testament to free speech. That it takes a piece of art of make this clear seems wrong, yet sadly apposite.

Who knew there were rules?

I had a sneaking suspicion I’d been doing it wrong…

(Chin chin, Linkbunnies!)

Kurt Vonnegut reads an extract from Slaughterhouse 5.

via WFMU’s Beware of The Blog.