CANNES – A diary from the dirty side of the Croissette at the 69th Cannes Film Festival.
Look seriously I cannot be bothered to be sitting down and writing these Cannes diaries when I’ve spent the whole day trying to get Jodie Foster’s Beaver out of the conversation. This is the 69th Cannes film festival isn’t it? Everybody screamed as we headed away from the Marriott and toward the Palais du Cinema. Security is so tight right now that the Gendarmes are not letting anyone in with bottled water because of the great bottled water bomb of 1987. Memories are long in this town, except for pederasty.
There was a series of weird jokes during the opening ceremony. Two or three homophobic ones and something about Woody Allen not being prosecuted for rape. I mean weird because I didn’t make them. They were all the work of some French comedian. But any complaints about French comedy should be addressed to the fact that the French love Jerry Lewis. And there I rest my case.
Ken Loach is skipping around town in a tight gold lame gown. He’s prepping the new Sex and the City movie, I, Carrie which is creating tons of buzz. Likewise Jodie Foster’s amazing film Money Monster manages to make us feel sorry for George Clooney again because he has too much sex and money. By the way the film is a complete disgrace. It’s actually evil. Not only does it whitewash (and I mean it in the old sense now) the financial crisis and more or less blame the victims and one bad apple despite all the evidence to the contrary, but it also has zero tits. And I mean none.