Yes I'm afraid its all true! Here's an old friend and ex-employee's story of mis-adventures in Cannes. And just to prove that he sometimes does work for a living, check out the great photo shoot with Tippi Hedren in L.A. recently... and that trip is another story!
It was not meant to be like that. Never. If you had told me in advance how that particular Cannes trip would go, I would have said “No thanks, I’m washing my hair during those particular dates.” As I sport a permanently shaved head, you get my drift… I was determined to go to Cannes. My first visit the previous year, was nothing but a massive, eye-opening, educational and, yes, fun experience. You can’t really think of yourself as a Producer and not go to Cannes. So I picked dates around other work commitments and booked my flight to Nice. I set up a few meetings, and arranged for accommodation with a friend. I knew I was meant to get paid on the day I was leaving, so everything was on track for four days of working, drinking, networking and searching for party invites. Having thrown some stuff into my worn out travel bag at the last minute, I legged it to Kings Cross to catch the train to Luton Airport. Having paid for my train ticket, I tried to get some cash out of the ATM, and nothing happened! Gulp! I took the train. Feverish thoughts running through my head – I was meant to get paid, no money in bank, but then payments from them usually get made in the afternoon, but, it’s near the afternoon, and they’ve always paid on time, but then there’s clearly no money… hmmm… To go or not to go, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of a missed Cannes trip, or take up arms against this current financial problem?
I couldn’t get hold of the company whose payment I’ve been expecting, and decided to board the plane and call them again once I got to Cannes. I will no doubt see the money in my account in a few hours…
Land in Nice.
Other members of the film community are also waiting for the bus to Cannes. The ticket is one Euro. I put it on my card and it goes through. I put my phone on. It searches for a signal, looking to hook
it to a French network. This is the very same phone I used in Cannes the year before, as well as trips to a number of other countries. It should work. Hear me dammit? It should work! But no… it’s searching… searching and it ain’t finding nothing. It just searches. On the bus to Cannes (which was only two hours late) I ask a fellow producer if I can use her phone. I just need to call the friend I’m meant to be staying with.Naturally his phone isn’t working. I leave a message to call me (obviously my phone will be fine any minute now). We arrive. Phone or no phone, in Cannes the basic idea is to get yourself to The Grand. Arriving late at night, I dragged my bag to the hotel and immediately found a few of the people I had arranged to meet with. Within minutes I found myself with a drink in my
hand and in fun company, and got all the latest gossip from people who had been there for a few days, being updated on what’s been happening in the market, and in the festival. It’s always funny to note that there are in fact two (if not more) events happening at the same time – the festival and the market. To most people, one has nothing to do with the other (in my case, the goings on at the festival are almost irrelevant). I couldn’t spot the person I was meant to be staying with, and given that my own phone was still in search mode, I borrowed a few phones throughout the night to try and get hold of him. Nothing. At about four in the morning most people had left the bar… I know someone offered me a place to stay, but I lost sight of them, and without a phone… Damn that alcohol! Strolling the street at night, dragging my bag (thank goodness for wheels), I notice it’s starting to rain – obviously. My body is tired, as are my arms after carrying that bag all across town. Then I remember the train station. Crossing my fingers, I walked there in the hope of getting away from the rain. The relief I felt seeing it open was massive. I couldn’t see any other festival goers in there. Most of the people seemed like French locals who were stranded or were waiting for the first train.
An empty bench became my new best friend as my body rested. Rested, but crying out for something softer under it. Rested, but without really resting as I was in a constant panic that if I fall asleep someone would walk away with my bag and rucksack. So not the greatest rest ever. Never mind, tomorrow will be different, I said to myself. Tomorrow will be great! Tomorrow becomes today. It’s early in the morning and I start walking around, luggage in tow. I go to the nearest ATM. It seems to be mocking me. I’m getting hungry. After my failed encounter with the cash machine I start thinking of options of where to go. Then I hear my name being shouted. I look around – J. an old colleague from another life, is waving to me, looking swish in his Cannes outfit (you know, summer clothes and shades – everything we don’t wear in grey old London). He tells me it’s his last few hours in Cannes and invites me to breakfast. Phew. He asks me if I need a pass to the market place. Of course I do! He just needs to go in for an hour or so, and he’ll call me when he’s done. I explain the situation and we arrange to meet up. Predictably, J does not turn up. Since when does anyone arrive on time in Cannes?
Lunch is next on my mind. Thankfully I have an invite to a lunch do courtesy of the lovely people at some post-production house, and my neighbour, who has just finished his first feature film with them. I go down and hear the first pop of a champagne cork – what a sweet sound. Something no screwtop bottle will ever be able to achieve. With food and drink aplenty, I lay down on a comfy sofa, situated right on the beach, a glass in my hand and my body finally finds itself starting to relax. I then notice that this is no ordinary post-house party. There’s Billy Zane and Kelly hanging out next to me,
and when I look in the other direction, Tommy-Lee Jones is nattering with what could only be ‘his people’. My neighbour turns up and we eat and drink away.
One woman turns to me and comments that I look so relaxed on the sofa… yeah, right…
This is just relief that I’ve not had to drag my luggage for a few hours. The party is long finished, but the hardcore crowd is still drinking away. This is mainly due to the fact that the boss of said post-house is being ridiculously generous and keeps buying rounds of mojitos, and all of us are far too polite to say no. There’s mention of another party at the Weinstein headquarters, and a motley crew of semi-pissed film people (a description which applies to nearly everyone in Cannes) makes its way there. I seem to be the only person dragging their luggage. Stunning views from the penthouse, more champagne and food, lovely company, and I’m thinking – hey, it’s not all bad! We carry on to a club – by now it’s getting very late – and I’ve still not found a place to sleep for the night. Truth be told, I’ve not been looking, what with all the schmoozing and boozing. But my neighbour promises to sort something (he’s staying with the good folk from the post-house), so I’m not worried. Someone – and I really have no idea who by now – just keeps buying drinks at this very loud club. I’m seeing five of most people, but in a good way. It’s now way past two in the morning and we all start making our way toward their villa when I realise I’m not dragging anything behind me! The panic that sets in means I’m running around a bit. By the time I find my luggage I’m no longer able to spot neighbour and friends (the next day I find out my neighbour spent about an hour looking for me and probably missed me by a few minutes in every place he looked). So I drag myself and my luggage to La Petite Majestic and find myself nattering away with other night-owls, all of them asking if I’ve just arrived. Tired, still broke, and still with luggage in tow I try to find a place to rest. Petite Majestic has closed, and the streets are nearly empty. I find a café, which is open with a seat outside. After 10 minutes or so I’m told that I can only stay if I order something. I order the bill, but the joke is lost on the waitress, so I politely leave and head to the only place that will have the likes of me at this time of night– the train station. The friendly bench awaits me.
Morning. I’ve not washed in two days – something I’ve not done in quite a few years, and I need a coffee. I check the cash-machine, just in case, but the results are the same. I go back to the Grand and, having had enough of dragging my luggage around, I store it underneath the piano in the hotel. Laptop out, I manage to at least get in touch with a few people I’ve arranged to meet. A quick change of clothes in the toilet, and I’m fresh as a daisy. I sit down and someone asks if they can sit at my table. I agree, and when the waiter arrives my new tablemate insists on buying me coffee and a pastry for invading my table. Who am I to refuse? I decide I must make it into the market area and, given that I can’t buy a daily pass, I go for the oldest trick in the book – do you mind if I just nip back in? But where is your pass monsieur? I can’t find it – I think I left it inside the UK pavilion – I’ll be very quick. They let me in. Inside, a whole host of familiar faces, and I’m very kindly invited to the Kodak lunch, which just happened to be starting. Good – I’m hungry and could do with a drink (hair of the dog and all that). At the Kodak party I bump into a gang of old chums who are on the hunt for more parties and meetings. We stroll around the market and, somehow, the business card I’ve hung around my neck seems to work on all the security people. This is good as I need to be meeting one or two people there.
Later in the day we find ourselves invited to the party hosted by the Scandinavian countries. Great food and drinks, and more interesting chats with producers and financiers. What an international lot we are – a German producer, French composer, Swiss director, Italian actress (she was a bit weird), and various other folk who seemed to pop out of nowhere and joined our party. Once again I find myself on a great rooftop, with great view of the most buzzing film festival in the world. I drink a toast to the town. The French composer is horrified by the fact I’ve not found a bed and offers me his spare room! I’m determined to keep eye-contact with him! I have his phone number of course. We move to another party and, walking along La Croisette, I bump into a producer friend from China. We’ve been trying to set up a meeting for the past two days. It’s past midnight now and she’s leaving first thing in the morning. We decide to sit down and chat (I’m hoping to be invited to China to run a workshop for her). She takes me to the Chinese party. Before leaving my gang I ask where they’ll be later. They give me the name of the club. As I watch them go I wonder if I’ll ever see that spare room – but this meeting is important to me. When we get to the Chinese party I become slightly star-struck. The table next to us is playing host to two people I hugely admire – Jackie Chan and John Woo – who are getting very drunk together, which makes my meeting even more entertaining. The meeting goes well, and we plan the sort of workshop we’d like to run.
She tells me they are talking to other people about running the workshop, but I’m the person she’ll be recommending. I walk away elated. Happy about the meeting, even happier to have had a couple of words with two filmmakers I’ve admired for a long time. Was this worth losing a spare room for? Time will tell. The Grand is about to close and I just cannot be bothered to drag my luggage anymore. I decide to leave it under the piano. All my valuable things are in my rucksack, so sod it. I’m sure my luggage will be there in the morning. I start imagining various bomb-scare incidents at the hotel, but the worst that will happen is the French police will blow up some dirty underwear. C’est la vie.
More drinks at Le Petite Majestic, and when it closes I know my routine. Yes, my little train station bench, here I come. As I lay down I try to imagine that the spare room I was offered earlier was the worse possible room ever; smelly, full of bugs and far far away. Surely that must be the case. My last day in Cannes. I arrive at The Grand to see my luggage is still waiting for me where I’d tucked it away.
I finally get an e-mail from the company whose payment I’ve been expecting. There was a problem with printing out my invoice. They were very apologetic – this has never happened before etc, and the payment should be in my account by end of day. Hmmmm…. After a couple of hours of meetings and card swapping I get hungry again. I walked along La Croisette, trying to think of how best to deal with this when I bumped into an old chum outside a restaurant. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked what he was doing there. He was in charge of the guest list for The Times lunch, and asked if would I like to come in. He’d read my mind! A fantastic lunch was laid out and I found myself on a table with a few British financiers and producers. A solicitor friend is on the table next to me, which gave us a chance to catch up – something we’ve been trying to do for a couple of months. After a couple of hours of more food and wine, we – myself and all the friends at my table – are the only ones left. Everyone else has left, but we are still ordering wine, munching away, making plans, talking shop, and loving the sunshine. I only have one or two more hours before I need to be at the airport. I’ve not really given any thought to how I’ll get there, but somehow, a woman who has just joined our table tells me that she’s on the same flight as me, and that I can join her taxi ride! I just need to make it to her hotel in an hour or so where she and the rest of company are staying. Perfect! After five hours at one of
the best, and most entertaining, lunches I’ve ever had, I stagger away to retrieve my luggage from under the piano at The Grand Hotel. I say to Cannes and somehow find the hotel just as my new acquaintance and the rest of her company step into the cab for the airport. I’ll admit that after all the wine we’ve drunk, I am not all there. I fall asleep in the airport and wake up to find I can’t see my luggage. There’s only 10 minutes left to board the plane. Finally someone indicates that they may have found it and I should check with security. At security they tell me off for walking away from my
luggage (did I do that?), and hand it back to me. I make my way as fast as I can and manage to board the flight just as they’re closing the doors. Phew….
When I land in Luton I worry about getting back to London, but my card works! I can buy a train ticket! There is money in my account! Needless to say that my phone is working again. I spend the train ride to London listening to all the messages left for me over the last four days: “Where are you?” “Do you still need the room?” “Can’t find you…worried about you”. Text messages, voicemail, all of them about my sleeping arrangements. Well, I think as I prepare myself for my first night on a proper bed, at least I’m not out of pocket by much – just that one Euro I spent on the bus from the airport to Cannes. Before falling asleep on the lovely mattress, surrounded by my lovely pillows and my soft, soft duvet, I go over the last few days in my head. I had a good time, a productive
time, a lot of fun – but never, I mean NEVER again!
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