CANNES – In the first of a series of diaries the Studio Exec dishes the crap from the Croisette; asks Cannes he use Cannes as a pun? (answer: Yes, he Cannes) and gives you the skinny on the most prestigious and most important international film festivals now in its 66th edition.
The journey began badly in Los Angeles; got worse in Detroit; got a little bit better over the Atlantic Ocean; took a real nose dive in Amsterdam; and finally shipped me up on the shores of the Cote Azure at a little airport in a town called Nice (yeah, no, I did that). I was tired and a little jet lagged but luckily Baz Luhrmann was there to welcome me. ‘I’m honored,’ I told him, but it turns out he’s welcoming everyone to Cannes personally. Part of his penitence for having premiered The Great Gatsby at New York BEFORE it opened in Cannes.
After Baz dropped me off at my hotel and headed back off to the airport, I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom and weep liked a wounded animal. That has little or nothing to do with you and it would anyway take too long to explain, but this is a diary so there’s going to be some extraneous shit in here.
I just had time for a quick snack: a vegetarian steak tartar and a glass of whisky that seemed to have been poured by someone with a stern belief in Homeopathy. I got chatting with a fine Australian colleague who told me that Mad Max: Fury Road was a fun shoot. Apparently, it rained so much they couldn’t use the desert and had to ship everything to Namibia. ‘The post-apocalyptic wasteland looked like Little House on the F*cking Prairie,’ says he. Told me also that Baz in Baz Luhrmann stands for Barry and not Balthazar as I’ve heard him tell everyone in Los Angelese.
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