That’s me between the Asian and the freak.
I had the opportunity to attend the Cannes Film Festival over the past few days, and it was a whirlwind experience full of red carpets, yacht parties, and Jean Claude Van Dammes galore. My brains are still recovering from the extensive travel and time difference, but I feel it’s more authentic and enjoyable if I share my journey in my current semi-conscious condition.
When I arrived at the hotel, the Maison de Jacque D’Azur, I was greeted with an ice col Stella Artois, a welcomed welcome after spending the previous fifteen hours on a metal tube that has no business hovering so long in the sky. The Maison used to be home to Picasso, who I’m sure is rolling over in his grave now that bloggers are slogging around it, covering the interior with a thick layer of Cheetos dust.
Friday night I attended the red carpet premiere of Oliver Stone’s Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps at the Grande Theatre Lumiere. Due to my sleep-deprived brains misfunctioning, I unfortunately missed the limo to the event with the rest of the group, but a nice French fellow named Fredrick whisked me away on a shuttle ride of death through the busy streets of Cannes to get me there on time. I saw my life flash before my eyes as the Volkswagon van swerved in and out of traffic, almost killing several Vespa drivers, an act of aggression I have no issue condoning. I arrived in one tuxedoed piece though, and walked the red carpet like a fancy boy with purpose and prestige. It’s amazing how well formal wear masks indignity.
All the stars came out for the premiere of Wall Street 2; Martin Scorsese, George Lucas, Oliver Stone and the entire cast. Eli Wallach didn’t make it, but I’m pretty sure that’s because he’s too old to fly and breathe at the same time.
The film is called Money Never Sleeps, but if money watched this movie it would conk out quicker than a transient with a bottle of Jim Beam and a handful of Ambien. Meetings with my financial advisor are more exciting. The dynamic between Gordon Gecko and Bud Fox in the first Wall Street is completely lost in the sequel. Everyone spends most of the movie spewing out stockbroker jargon that isn’t compelling unless you make your living spewing out stockbroker jargon. It’ll be a huge hit with Windsor-tie-wearing bigwigs, but inhabitants of Main Street won’t be interested in watching a fictional depiction of how they got screwed.
After the premiere, I attended a couple of yacht parties with people whom I insist on calling my new friends. Yu-Ming runs Freshness Mag and Sneaker News, and Bryce runs The Luxury Spot. You should check out their sites because they’re my new friends and you’re my friends and I like it when all of my friends are friends. Don’t worry, I’m working on the woven bracelets for us all now.
In order to board the yachts we had to take off our shoes, and to my surprise, no one was carried out of the parties with shards of glass stuck in their feet. The boats were flowin’ with champagne and bumpin’ that kind of music that fifty-year-old men and fifteen-year-old girls alike love grinding to. Also, two hot chicks in skintight gold getups performed a sexual flashlight dance to Daft Punk. Also, Jean Claude Van Damme showed up in Bentley.
On Saturday, after some much needed sleep after being up for 36 hours straight, I headed over to the Stella Artois Lounge at the Plage Des Palms. It was a fantastic spot with a gorgeous view of the harbor, more yachts that made me feel insignificant, delicious pork chops, and all the beer one could drink.
With my belly full of booze and pig flesh, I went back to the hotel where I tried to post something but the Internet connection wasn’t cooperating. I just wanted to let you know I tried, you guys.
That night I attended the red carpet premiere of Woody Allen’s You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger. It was the same pomp and circumstance with the tuxes and the stars. I’m pretty sure all the photographers thought I was a famous Jew actor. Take your pick, I could be that guy. Oh great, thanks for picking David Schwimmer, dick.
I enjoyed the film. It reminded me quite a bit of Vicki Christina Barcelona in the sense that it’s about married people cheating who shouldn’t be cheating just because they fight or f*ck too much or not enough. It also has a damn omniscient narrator again, who I do not approve of. Go back to sexing up sheet metal in a Mercedes-Benz commercial and quit explaining to me why Woody Allen characters are neurotic, unhappy schlubs. I can fill in the blanks on my own.
Regardless of the lazy use of V.O., the performances of Naomi Watts, Josh Brolin, Anthony Hopkins, Lucy Punch, and Gemma Jones kept me interested. I don’t want to spoil the end, so I’ll just say I was disappointed that right when the film started to pick up speed, Woody pulled the plug. Twenty minutes less in the beginning and more at the end would have balanced the story out nicely. As it is now, I walked away assuming the moral is that if you’re a crazy old person you’ve got it all figure out. Mozel tov.
I had never been to Cannes before this weekend, and in less than two days I soaked up my share of the sights, sounds, and drivers who have zero regard for the sanctity of pedestrian life. I’m grateful to Stella Artois for sending me on the trip. It allowed me to experience a festival I would probably otherwise have never experienced, and to share with you my ridiculous thoughts, videos, and pictures. Now if you’ll excuse me, my scrambled brain isn’t sure if I’m hungry or if I have to go number 2, so I’m going to head to the kitchen and hope it’s the former.
Au revoir, homies.