Confessions of a Cannes Virgin

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.

Bagger get that inside the stirrup and roll it

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.

The Ugly Truth About Freedom Of Speech


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.

The Turning Torso and Grandma’s Slippers

We were in Malmö this weekend, as part of an informal gathering of Scandinavian friends. Clare and I are honorary Scandies, and we wear our horned hats with pride. It was a real blast, and we discovered some whole new taste sensations.
Salted liquorice, for example. Sounds dreadful, but the light salting brings out the savoury aspects of the flavour, bouncing the aniseedy flavour around the mouth in a deeply intruiging way. There are tons of different kinds, including a hot version, which when ground and added to Korskenkova vodka becomes this stuff. Syrupy, aniseed flavoured grain alcohol. It has a certain something. A cough syrup sort of something.
Now, add that to Bailey’s. You have the danger-packed thrill-ride that is the Grandma’s Slipper.
You now have sweet and salty, creamy and spicy, boozy and boozier, all in one mouthful. It’s like Scandinavia in a shot glass; slightly odd, not what you’d expect and huge amounts of fun.
Why Grandma’s Slippers? They’re soft and they smell funny.
Malmö is a lovely city, full of open squares ringed with cafes and bars, some beautiful old architecture mingled in with cool bits of modern sculpture, and a river running through it. Tons of cinemas too, gratifyingly, and mostly showing arthouse and independent films as opposed to the usual Hollywood tosh.

But it’s a city that’s gradually changing. New developments with a clean, open feel are sprouting up as part of a public works programme by the bay. A major landmark here is the Turning Torso, which reminded me a little of the Burj-al-Arab in Dubai, or indeed the Spinnaker in Portsmouth. It’s the tallest skyscraper in Scandinavia.

No, the sections don’t move independently. If they did, it would be the cause of the highest incidence of motion sickness in Scandinavia.
Clare and I had a blast this weekend. Props and shouts to all the Lashers we met. Good people all.