To Italy and Back

I’ve been in France for four weeks. While I like to say I have travelled and can adjust to any culture, the French have worn on me. Please don’t mistake me for a weary traveler. I have  traversed the prison like chamber that is the JFK airport with ease and rode in hot underground trains with what seemed like the entire population of Tokyo. France, however; is a different beast. 

One of my first days in Cannes, I ordered a crepe from a street cart. I thought I would try to use some French as not to be that American tourist. I say, “Je voudrais un crepe.” The French woman stares blankly at me. Maybe she’s hard of hearing? I ask again, “Je voudrais un crepe.” Still nothing. Maybe I’m not committing enough, so with my best faux-french accent I say, “Je voudrais un cr(insert stereotypical French phlegm sounds here)epe.” At last, she understands. 

Sure there might be an actual difference between crepe and “crghghghrrepe”. I don’t know, but the difference can’t be so vast that a woman WORKING AT A CREPE STAND wouldn’t understand what I was trying to say. Needless to say, my weekend in Italy was a welcomed change to my stay in France. 

My first attempt at speaking Italian was a complete failure. Delirious from waking up at 4:30, I stumbled into at cafe after getting off my first train in Italy. All I wanted was a cappuccino, but all my brain could muster was a string of strange French phrases. Every “Merci!” was followed by a “Errr, I mean…. Grazie!!! Clearly some language adjustment was needed. 

I was only in Italy for forty eight hours, but I managed to pack in a tour of Lucca and Pisa, a trip to the beach in Viareggio, and a hike up a mountain that made me want to call bullshit on the jaunty ending to The Sound of Music. (Sorry for the two Sound of Music references in two posts, but in my opinion you can never get enough of the Von Trapps.) 

To say I loved Italy would be an understatement. Even on the train ride, I was drooling as I looked out the window onto the ocean and then the country side. Then I got to listen to five old Italian women gossip while I ate my breakfast. It was a perfect introduction to northern Italy.

Lucca was beautiful. Kayla and I got lost in the winding streets. Luckily for us though, the city is surrounded by a medieval wall. When all else fails you just keep going straight and you will eventually hit the stone walls, that or some Italian designer store. I wasn’t complaining. 

Saturday was Pisa. You get off the train, and it just looks like a random Italian city. I don’t know why, but whenever I travel I expect there to be huge signs pointing to all the famous landmarks or the tourist sights will be right next to the train station or airport. With Pisa, you have to walk across the city from the the train station to get to the tower. 

We really had no idea where we were going. We passed a piazza, a bridge, and a street packed with stores and restaurants, but no tower. I started to try to follow all the other people with cameras at the ready, and eventually the street opened up to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

I find it hilarious that something is so famous because it’s a screw up. It gives hope to middle children everywhere. In the courtyard with the tower is a beautiful dumo and church, but no one really seems to care about them. Sure you take a picture of them, but not a “Look how strong I am that I can hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa” picture. I myself opted for the much more realistic “Look at how weak I am as the Leaning Tower of Pisa starts to crush me” picture.  

Sunday was a quick trip to Viareggio. I got to shop and hit the beach for a bit before making the train back to France. It wasn’t a long trip, but the entire time I was there I just kept feeling like I wanted to stay. I was talking to an Italian woman on my train back into France and she asked me if I liked France or Italy better. Without hesitation I said, “Italy. Most definitely Italy.” 

Obligatory lamp post shot. 

The Day My Faith Was Restored In The French

4:30

My eyes shoot open. There will be no snooze button today. I need to be on time. I need to be alert. I need to not get mugged.

4:40

I look over my travel plans for the day: Juan les Pins to Ventimiglia, Ventimiglia to La Spezia Centrale, and La Spezia Centrale to Viareggio. I call these plans, but they are awash in uncertainty. All of the worst possible scenarios run through my head. What if my first train is delayed? What if I don’t make my transfers? What if one of the trains is cancelled? What if one of the trains is cancelled and there isn’t another train until the next morning? What if one of the trains is cancelled, there isn’t another train until morning and I get mugged in the interim? I eat my nutella covered croissant like it’s my last meal. 

4:45

The sugar from my nutella laden croissant hits me, and I get a new sense of confidence. It’s reading time tables and sitting. Surely I can handle this. I grab my bags and head downstairs singing “I Have Confidence” from The Sound of Music to myself. 

4:48

I pass the receptionist and offer him a much too cheery “Bonjour!” for this ungodly hour. He asks why I am up so early. I explain that I bought a ticket out of Ventimiglia at 7:48, and this first train is the only one that will get me into Ventimiglia before then. He wishes me good luck then hesitates and in a most un-cheery tone says, “Be careful as you go to the train station.” He must see the automatic panic in my face and says, “Not that you have to worry,” then switches back to his doomsday voice, “But be careful.” 

4:49

I walk the block to the train station without blinking once. 

4:50 

Walking up to the station I see that the doors are closed. Maybe they don’t open the doors until 5:00? I don’t panic, because I see a French woman smoking by the shut doors. At least someone else thinks there is a train coming. 

5:00

The station is still closed, but the French lady is on the move. I watch her get onto the platform through what is normally the exit. Since I am starting to panic and really don’t have any better options, I follow her. You know, like a mugger. 

5:05 

I see her get a ticket from the machine on the first platform. I forgot about this outdoor kiosk. Suddenly relieved that I can buy my ticket, I show the French woman how to validate her ticket. She realizes I don’t speak French. We share awkward gestures. Oh it is grand. 

5:10

I spin the dial of the ticket machine with confidence as I choose my location and get my discount. This confidence comes crashing down when the price pops up. €7.50. These remember that these machines only take coins. I rip open my purse. I only have €6.50 in change. My throat starts to close. 

5:12

I look at the ground around me praying that by some miracle a shiny euro will look back at me. I am once again reminded that my life is not a Disney movie. 

5:14 

I contemplate cheating the system. Maybe I can buy a cheaper children’s ticket? This sounds like utter brilliance until I remember I don’t know the word for children in French, so I can’t find it on the machine. Maybe I will just chance it and get on the train sans ticket? I think that since my train ride is an hour and twenty minutes that they certainly will check tickets. After four weeks in Europe, cash is diminishing, and I can’t risk a forty euro charge. I curse my gelato runs and souvenir shopping. Screw everybody at home, I just want to go to Italy! 

5:15

Times are desperate. I have ten minutes until the train comes, but still no ticket. I imagine myself walking back to Couleurs Soleil with my head down in defeat. The receptionist will ask what happened, and I will feed him a fantastical story about how I missed my train because I was mugged by a man with a hook. I try to decide if I should rip my sleeve to make it look like a hook got to it. 

5:16 

I hear a cough behind me. The French woman. In my panic and self deprecation, I forgot about her. I think the unimaginable. I, the American who speaks eight words of French will ask a French stranger for help. I walk over to the second platform preparing to get a baguette thrown at me.  

5:18

I approach her and ask, “Do you have a euro?” She looks at me strangely. Of course because she doesn’t speak English. I mustered all the French I know and say, “ I need un billet. I have un, deux, trios, quatre, cinq,... six. I need... seven. I need un euro.” 

She either understands that pile of garbage, or the desperation in my face must have been so pathetic that she gave pity on my stupid English speaking soul. I don’t care, because she reaches into her wallet and handed me one shiny euro. I burst into one hundred rushed versions of “merci beaucoup!” 

5:20

I run back to the ticket machine, pay for my ticket, and run back to the second platform with a few minutes to spare before the train comes rolling in.

6:43

I arrive in Ventimiglia. They never checked my ticket. Classic France. 

My Strange Addiction

Don’t ask me where it started, because I don’t know. Some of us just have weird loves. I am just glad mine isn’t heroin or watching Toddlers and Tiaras. Instead, (and please spare me from the Anchorman references) I love lamp posts.  

I have tried to think of why I am drawn to them, but I can’t come up with a very good reason. Maybe it’s because they are functional but allow for ornamentation. Maybe it’s because they reflect the city you are in. Maybe it’s because I was dropped too often as a child. I don’t know.  

I do know that when I see one I like, I take a picture of it. I am not picky about the location. I have taken pictures of them in front of a palace in Spain and a restaurant in Florida. Although I must say the selection is better in Europe. 

    Today was a great day for lamp post picturing taking. After class, I went into Antibes for the afternoon. I was expecting a little beach town like Juan les Pins, but it turned out to be entirely different. There were gorgeous sea views, ivy covered houses, an old roman fortress, roads barely big enough for both man and cars to coexist in peace, and, of course, tons of lamp posts. I will end my rambling here and leave you with my favorite pictures from the day. 

24 Hours to Italy

I’ve always thought the idea of going to the airport, looking at the departure screen, picking a city, and just going was something I had to do at least once in my life. However my struggle to book a ticket to Italy yesterday makes me reconsider my travel fantasies. 

Who are these people who just hop on planes and travel around the world? How do they even get a reservation on such short notice?  Do they ever get stranded in foreign countries because of train strikes? How do they make five minute train changes in stations they have never been in? Do they have buckets of money at their disposal? 

They must have ties to the mob. Sadly, I do not. 

Instead, I sat on trenitalia.com for hours yesterday trying to figure out how to get from Ventimiglia to Viareggio. After accidentally booking a train for Saturday rather than Friday, I contemplated throwing my computer across the room. I just had to remind myself: How often are you in Europe? How often are you and your cousin in Europe at the same time? Not too often/never. Figure out this stupid website and get your ass to Italy. I did, and tomorrow I will.  

My travel plans for tomorrow. Wish me luck! 

Mud

For a film entitled Mud, everything seems to shine in Jeff Nichols’ third film about two boys helping a fugitive evade the cops and reunite with his longtime love. 

Matthew McConaughey plays the titular character with charm and ease, while Reese Witherspoon breezes through as Mud’s love, Juniper, long enough to get her name in the credits. The real performances, however, come from the two child actors who play Ellis and Neckbone. 

After appearing in The Tree of Life, Tye Sheridan anchors the film as Ellis, a boy on the brink of the excitement and disillusionment of adolescence. Even with his parents headed toward divorce, Ellis holds on to his idealized notions of true love. They are his main motivation for helping Mud retrieve a boat from a tree that will hopefully lead him to Juniper and freedom. 

McConaughey repeats, “A boat in a tree; that’s a hell of a thing.” This may be true, but I’d argue more that Sheridan gives a hell of a performance. In one scene, Ellis receives his first kiss from the older May Pearl and immediately asks her to be his girlfriend. When she accepts, Sheridan gives one triumphant smile that captures the butterfly in your stomach feeling of first time love. Unfortunately, this smile doesn’t last for long. 

As his parents’ marriage becomes more volatile, Mud and Juniper’s relationship wanes and May Pearl turns up with an older boy, Ellis’ faith in love starts to crack. This comes to a head in a fight between Ellis and Mud. Sheridan depicts the anger and betrayal we all feel as our romanticized ideas of love are first shattered.

He doesn’t rely on McConaughey to bring the emotional drama to the fight, but rather has his own commanding presence and one hell of an arm. Sheridan’s loss of faith is convincing, but turns out to bite him (literally) in the end. 

In his first feature film, Jacob Lofland plays Ellis’ best friend, Neckbone. It would be easy for this southern accented orphan to come off as a stereotype, but Lowland delivers a well timed comedic performance as Ellis’ loyal friend who thankfully is also good with a wrench. 

While these performances are fun and engaging to watch, the pivotal relationship between Mud and Juniper seems underdeveloped. There isn’t a problem with either McConaughey or Witherspoon’s performances, but rather a lack of screen time and believable history to persuade me that not only are they a couple, but they are one worth fighting for. This, however, is one of the only flaws I saw in the film. 

Mud explores the many manifestations that love can take. There are several variations of romantic love, each more disappointing than the next. Nichols also depicts the father-son relationship in a literal way, between an uncle and nephew and with a surrogate father figure. Another variation highlights the loving bonds of friendship. However, one is more subtle than the rest, but permeates throughout the entire film. In its execution, Mud reads like Jeff Nichols’ personal love letter to middle America and his home state of Arkansas. 

During an opening scene Ellis helps his father ride across town and sell fish out of his truck. While the job itself doesn’t seem all that pleasant, the sequence is stunning. It’s shot during that magical time when the sun starts to melt into the Earth. Everything has the blue-gold haze of summer and youth. As they drive down a highway, you can see American flags and a sign that read “God Bless America” in the background. Nichols constructs this world with a certain authenticity and beauty that only a director from the same area could achieve. 

Mud is a regionally specific film as it takes place on the Mississippi River, but Nichols does a good job of evolving his characters beyond Southern conventions. These characters are in sensational circumstances (it is a movie after all), but they aren’t sensationalized characters. They are the ordinary, the broken, the lovesick. The type of people you would find in any riverside city in Arkansas. This realism aids in the film’s mass appeal and our ability to effortlessly invest in these characters and the film.

Now I have to admit my bias. The day before I saw Mud, I met Jeff Nichols and listened to him talk about his inspiration and the processes of making this film. On top of that, Mud was the last premiere I saw in the Lumiere theater during the Cannes Film Festival. 

While I can’t deny that I had an extraordinary viewing experience of Mud, I don’t think I would have enjoyed it any less if my first screening was in a familiar cineplex back in the states. Mud is a well-crafted uplifting drama that audiences will love no matter where they watch it. 

Antiviral

     Welcome to the Lucas Clinic, where your favorite celebrity’s diseases are at your choosing. Antiviral takes celebrity obsession to new heights as rabid fans pay to inject themselves with anything from the flu to herpes in an attempt to feel closer to their famous idols. Brandon Cronenberg attempts to master body horror like his father, David Cronenberg, but falls short in this sickening and exploitative depiction of a society possessed by celebrities. If Antiviral is any indication of where society is headed, I’ll off myself now and save the trip to the clinic. 

Class and beach. Beach and class.

Sitting in class in the morning then laying by the beach in the afternoon: my life post-festival. Not a bad combination if you ask me, and a good way to get over my end of the festival depression. 

Juan les Pins is a nice little town, but it is no Cannes. It’s felt weird not going to the train station, dealing with crowds, and walking down red carpet. I am not use to this thing called “down time.” What do you do in such situations? Why go for a swim in the Mediterranean of course! Well, at least that is what I tried to do yesterday. 

After class, I did a bit of shopping in JLP. I found the quintessential European clothing store. Everything was neon and fringed. I picked up a pair of skinny jeans only to discover that I had accidentally stumbled in the men’s section, and they were meant for guys. Whoops. 

I finally hit the beach and the second, THE SECOND, I got my towel out and got situated the sun went behind a huge cloud. Beach fail. Today was much more successful. So much so that I have started my French tan. 

The next nine days will include classes (which aren’t bad, it just isn’t the festival), day trips (I have Monaco, Antibes, and maybe a night back to Cannes on my list.), and this weekend I am headed to Italy to visit my cousin. 

I am so so so excited for Italy. If I can manage the train, I will be there Friday afternoon.It will be such a nice change from France. I will actually be able to somewhat, sort of, maybe converse with people! The food will be amazing! I will get to go see the Leaning Tower of Pisa! AND (most importantly) I will be with Kayla in the Italian countryside!!! Can you tell I’m a wee bit excited??? 

My view from the beach. Not too shabby, eh?

Mystery

     A car races down a highway as it pours sheets of rain outside. The driver is a young man and the woman in the passenger’s seat is just as beautiful as he is drunk. As they exit a tunnel mid-kiss, a woman in a bloody shirt appears in the middle on the road. Unable to react in time, he crashes into her, and she slowly dies on the pavement. Unfortunately, this whirlwind scene of promiscuity gone wrong is the peak of Lou Ye’s film, Mystery. 

Mystery is Ye’s second film after a Chinese government mandated five year ban on filmmaking, While Mystery isn’t short on Ye’s customary controversial content is it short on any inventive storytelling. 

Adultery, lies, sex, and murder riddle Ye’s film about Lu Jie's (Lei Hao) discovery of her husband’s (Qin Hao) numerous affairs, but as the plot predictably unfolds Ye’s “thriller” failed to ever thrill me. In addition, amateur looking cinematography and backwards characters hinder Mystery from being the twisted mind-bender Ye intended. 

Immediately after the opening death scene, we go back several days where Ye presents us with another car scene. This time, Lu Jie is in the driver’s seat with her young daughter in the back. She lives an ordinary life: caring for her daughter by day and tending to her husband, Yongzhao, at night. 

Her seemingly routine life comes crashing down when she sees Yongzhao enter a hotel with a young woman, Xiaomin (Chang Fangyuan). We then learn that Xiaomin is the same woman who was slain at the beginning of the film. The rest of the film follows Lu Jie as she attempts to uncover and exploit her husband in his many indiscretions.  

The camera takes on a documentary feel as Lu Jie stalks her husband. Ye uses agitated zooms, pans, tilts and rack focuses to make the camera seem like an additional investigative character, however; this approach is far too stylized for an affair story. While it somewhat works as Lu Jie stands behinds trees and peers around corners, the obvious camera movement continues even in dialogue heavy scenes. It seems like Ye’s failed attempt to create suspense out of a lackluster screenplay. Ye’s going for Bourne, but he comes off as a student fresh out of film school who wants to show you all his new camera tricks. 

The lacking cinematography drags the film down further in a sex tape between Yongzhao and his young mistress. Home video image quality, extreme close ups and blurry footage only add to the film’s amateurish characteristics. It looks like the trailer to a badly made porno rather than a brief insight into one of Yongzhao’s steamy affairs. 

More than anything, I despised the film’s female characters. Eventually, we find that Lu Jie's friend Sang Qi (Qi Xi) is yet another one of Yongzhao’s mistresses. Second wife is probably a better description as Yongzhao and Sang Qi share not only an apartment but a young son together.

Once Sang Qi reveals her true identity to Lu Jie, the two compete for Yongzhao. They actually vie for the love of a man who cheated and lied to them for years. This plot progression is as off putting as is it unrealistic. 

Over the course of the film, Lu Jie discovers that not only is her husband having an affair with three different woman, but that he has an entire second family with one of them. Despite all this, she initially tries to win her husband back through spontaneous sex and schemes to destroy his and Sang Qi’s relationship. While Lu Jie’s revenge plan is fun to watch at times, her initial plan to forgive and forget  Yongzhao’s actions makes her a difficult protagonist to root for. 

Sang Qi’s devotion is even more offensive as she endures Yongzhao’s physical and sexual abuse. Most of Yongzhao and Sang Qi’s screen time consists of him yelling, beating, or raping her. In one scene, Sang Qi talks of how her only desire is to be with Yongzhao. His character has no redeeming qualities, yet Sang Qi pathetically clings to him no matter how awful the abuse. Although Sang Qi plays this submissive role well, the message her character conveys is alarmingly reactionary for Ye. 

The film’s attempt at a final plot twist is dissatisfying and obvious. Thanks to a poorly developed subplot of the investigation into Xiaomin’s death, Ye practically gives away his surprise ending half way through the film. Sadly the only “mystery” is how such an unimaginative film could come from such an esteemed director like Ye. 

The Paperboy

In his first turn directing since Precious, Lee Daniels delivers an underwhelming and overwrought drama in The Paperboy. Daniels’ plot meanders about in Florida during the hot summer of 1969. Jack (Zac Efron), sexually frustrated and uncertain of his future, watches as his older brother Ward (Matthew McConaughey) attempts to set the wrongly accused Hillary Van Wetter (John Cusack) free. During this time, Jack falls for Wetter’s nymphomaniac fiance, Charlotte Bless (Nicole Kidman). After abandoning the initial injustice plot at the film’s halfway point, The Paperboy continues to go downhill despite solid performances from the principle cast. Daniels favors gritty, rough around the edges cinematography rather than a developing an actual storyline. 

There Goes the Festival

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, and so the 2012 Cannes Film Festival ends today. The weather is matching my mood as it rains outside my apartment in Juan les Pins. I didn’t stay in Cannes for the night partly due to the weather and partly because going to see the closing ceremonies would force me to realize that the festival is coming to an end. 

The past three days have probably been my favorite during the trip. I think it’s because I finally got a hold on the festival. I know what movies have the highest likelihood of being good (ones not in the market), where to see celebrities (press conferences), and how to get into premieres (smile and use The Secret). 

Jeff Nichols at AmPav

Last night’s premiere was my favorite of the festival. It was Mud directed by Jeff Nichols, who we actually got to meet the day before at the American Pavilion. It was a private meeting so it was just the students from my program and a handful of random pavilion goers. He talked about his career, Mud and his past films, and let us ask questions. 

Being the super cool kid that I am, I sat in the front row, and I am so glad that I did. Jeff Nichols was so wonderful to listen to. (I'm gong to use his full name, because I have too much respect for him to call him Jeff, but he seems too laid back to be called Mr. Nichols. So Jeff Nichols it is.)  He managed to come off incredibly humble in his achievements (Mud is only his third film, and it is in competition. Last year, his film Take Shelter won the Critics’ Week Grand Prix at Cannes. Oh yeah, and he’s only 33.) but incredibly confident in his abilities, and after seeing Mud, he has every right to be. 

Twelve years ago he actually worked as an intern in the American Pavilion, and last night, he premiered his film in the Lumiere. Earlier during the festival I made a goal to comeback to Cannes and stay at the Majestic. Not necessarily during the festival, I just want to be able to sit in the lobby whenever and wherever I want (the possibility of sleeping on the same mattress that Brad Pitt doesn’t hurt either). After hearing Jeff Nichols’ story, I feel like my “Return to Cannes” goal sounds pretty lame. 

I hope Mud gets picked up and does really well in the states, because I loved it, and it got an incredible response at the premiere. To be honest, every film that premieres at the Lumiere gets a ridiculously long standing ovation no matter how spectacular or god-awful it is. However it wasn’t just the standing ovation at the end (which was crazy long), but you could tell people loved it before the credits rolled. During the film, I heard people laugh, cry, gasp, and cheer at different points during the film. At one point, someone tried to start a slow clap, but was quite unsuccessful. It turned into one guy clapping alone for far too long at the top of the balcony.

The best part of last night’s premiere was my seat. No, I never made it down to the orchestra, but I’m not complaining. Instead, I got a Corbeille ticket. I had it one time before but it was a row or two below the balcony. It was more like balcony plus. Last night was different. Way different. 

Jeff Nichols at the Mud premiere. *Note the famous people. 

I knew something was up after I saw I had a seat number on my ticket. For balcony or “balcony plus,” you don’t get a seat number. It’s just an area they point to, and you can sit wherever. My seat ended up being in the lower rows of the Corbeille where you could peer over the edge and see where the celebrities sat. 

It was especially cool because we had just met Jeff Nichols  the day before, and he seemed so down to earth. Seeing him stand next to Reese Witherspoon and Matthew McConaughey only twenty four hours later was surreal. I know I have used that word too many times in this blog and on this trip. It’s starting to bother me, but I can’t find another word that so perfectly describes what this festival has felt like. If you have any alternatives to suggest, please let me know.

Yet another plus from last night, I can add Reese Witherspoon and Alec Baldwin to my celebrity sightings list. I had seen Alec Baldwin on the screen at the Lumiere a few times during the festival, but never with my own eyeballs. Unfortunately he was so far away I couldn’t ask him to sign an autograph or call me “Lemon.” In hindsight, the distance might have been a good thing.  

Since it was my favorite premiere, it made the fact that it would be my last premiere in the Lumiere a little easier to bear. 

How To Successfully Stalk Robert Pattinson

I’d like to think of this blog as a place of no judgement, so indulge me as I recount the day that I met Robert Pattinson. The fourteen year old version of myself has never been so happy. Now I myself thought I was above such school girl fantasies, but apparently not.

We waited in front of the press conference room for one in a half hours. Not too terribly long, but enough to make you question your priorities in life. Since it was inside the Palais it was mostly press and only a few fans. It was definitely not the screaming crazy girl crowd Rob (Forget Robert, we would go straight to Rob.) is use to. 

As it got closer to the conference people were getting antsy. We were in the very front of the crowd, and everyone behind us started to push forward. It was a odd group of people too. There were TV station reporters, European fan girls, and one grandmother who was just trying to get an autograph for her granddaughters. 

First Sarah Gadon came through the hallway. She is Rob’s costar in Cosmopolis and incredibly sweet. However it was weird hearing all the paparazzi yell “Sarah!” Yes, I know it wasn’t for me and it’s a common name, but when was the last time you heard a room full of paparazzi yelling your name? 

Then it was time for the main event. I am pleased to say there was no screaming, storming, or general insanity when he walked into the room. It just seemed so unreal that someone SO famous was standing SO close to me. 

I forewent the autograph route and instead tried to simultaneously take pictures and burn everything I saw into my brain. It lasted only a minute or two but my friends got his autograph (just a flourished “R”), and we said thank you for stopping so we could get autographs and pictures. He seemed to laugh a bit when he got to us. Our wide eyes and shaking voices let him know we were definitely not with the press. 

Then it was over. 

I saw Robert Pattinson’s face with my face. 

Crazy. 

My Date With Deanna

    The goal yesterday was to see Nicole Kidman in all her movie star glory. The trains failed me again and I missed the train to see her at the morning press conference. Deanna and I devised a new plan: skip begging and walking on the red carpet where you don't get to see the cast and wait outside the red carpet with a mob of crazy fans. How could that possibly go wrong?
     We went to The Paperboy premiere in the morning (the movie Nicole Kidman stars in). Begging in the morning is so easy. We stood outside the Palais, and in less than five minutes a nice old man handed us two shining silver tickets.
     The movie was not my favorite, but I still love seeing anything at the Lumiere theater. I still get chills every time the official Cannes music (which I am still convinced is the opening music from Beauty and the Beast) comes on before each film.
     After the film, we wandered around trying to find a post office. I did my best to pronounce "stamp" in French. Despite being in Cannes for two weeks, I still suck at French. I pronounce everything like it's Italian, which is not the way to go considering the French never pronounce the end of a word and Italians always pronounce the end of a word. Luckily, they were very patient with me.
     Then after going to get gelato where we got the flavor "cookies," (not oreo, not chocolate chip, just generic, however delicious, cookies) we went to stake out a spot near the red carpet.
     I was expecting crazy fans, but the people around us were surprisingly cool. We met two women who were only in Cannes for two days. They told us that they had already snuck in the Majestic (which immediately earned my respect) and were scheming to get onto the red carpet that night.
     Along with them there was a group of Swedish guys. One of them had an accordion. Yes, an accordion, which he proceeded to play and serenade the crowd with while we waited for the red carpet to start up.
     Once it eventually did begin, everyone's crazy came out. I kneeled on a ledge (which I am convinced did permanent damage to my knees) in order to get a glimpse of Nicole as she walked up the red carpet stairs. (I'll be honest if I actually got the chance to meet her and I didn't immediately pass out I would call her Ms. Kidman or divine goddess. Both seem fitting.)
     We saw the rest of the cast and a few other random actors. I may be getting too use to this red carpet movie star business, because when Antonio Banderas came down, I was like "Meh, he's alright, but I just saw Nicole Kidman." I don't know what I am going to do when this all ends.
     Afterwards, we hit the beach to watch Jaws. I snuggled up in my white blanket and Cannes Film Festival embroidered chair. It was so surreal. Spielberg gave a quick video intro then we were off. As the film played you could hear music from two after parties blaring behind us. The audience clapped after all the famous lines and cheered when Jaws finally blew up. It was just perfection.
   I am starting to get nervous that the festival is coming to an end. Everyday there are so many moments that I never thought I would experience. I am so tired but if I remind myself why I am so tired (walking the red carpet, stalking celebrities, seeing amazing films, exploring the alleyways of Cannes) I suddenly don't feel so tired anymore.

Love

     It is hard to say that I enjoyed Love (Amour). Watching the physical and mental deterioration of an elderly woman through the eyes of her devoted husband is not something a person can really enjoy. Rather, I was wholly captivated by Michael Haneke’s honest portrayal of the intertwined and complex relationship between love and death as it unfolds in a simple but emotionally moving film. 

George and Anne are in their eighties. After returning home from a classical music concert, a passion for both the retired music teachers, George delicately takes off his wife’s coat and tells her how beautiful she looks. Haneke never gives us the couple’s backstory, but these subtle and loving interactions clearly depict a relationship that survived decades. 

One morning at breakfast, Anne suffers a stroke that, after a failed surgery, leaves the right side of her body paralyzed. Eventually, Anne suffers another stroke, and the remainder of the film explores her agonizing descent into mental and physical oblivion.  

The success of this film is greatly due to the superb acting by Jean-Louis Trintignant (George) and Emmanuelle Riva (Anne). Once Anne’s health starts to crumble, George’s role is to react to her actions. Trintignant does this with unwavering honesty as he attempts to keep his wife alive while preserving both of their dignity. 

Riva’s Anne is astounding. While her performance is so realistic it is almost disturbing, it is all the more devastating because of Riva’s initial portrayal of Anne as a bright endearing woman. 

After becoming paralyzed, Anne tests out her new motor scooter. She whizzes around George and practices stopping as if it is a new toy to play with. This lighthearted tone contrasts with a later scene where Anne struggles to control her own movements, and cannot drive the scooter without bumping into door frames. Riva’s character arc is mesmerizing to witness however dreadful her health becomes. 

By the end of the film, Anne is reduced to nonsensical babblings and droning moans of the word, “hurts.” In one scene, George tries to feed Anne some water. At this point, she is in the late stages of her illness. Her words are gibberish and she needs constant physical care from both George and a pair of nurses. She refuses to open her mouth and spits up any water that George manages to get through. Exhausted, George asks Anne if she wants to die. Her eyes narrow and come alive. Usually unresponsive and unaware, Anne’s sudden alertness in this scene is one of the most heart shattering of the film. Riva barely moves, but the nuance in her facial expression reveals Anne’s inner desperation for death. 

Haneke’s pacing is slow, but deliberate as he immerses you into George and Anne’s confined world. With the exception of the music concert, the entire film takes place in their tidy Parisian apartment where only a handful of other characters ever enter. Repeatedly, he shoots the couple together but at a distance, and long takes dominate the film as we observe in real time George’s constant care of Anne. 

Soon after her first stroke, George helps Anne move from her wheelchair to another chair in the house. As George lifts Anne’s slumped body, it almost looks like they are sharing a loving embrace. However, this illusion quickly dissolves as George struggles to support both of their weight and move the mere two feet to the second chair. Every step, mouthful of food, and attempt at conversation is a chore that Haneke makes us experience along with George and Anne.  

Love is emotionally draining. As Anne becomes more and more incoherent it is painful to watch the fatigue and heartache in George’s eyes as he loses his wife one day at a time. However, what makes it such a rewarding film is its ability to portray the truth. There are countless movies on love, several on death but few centered on an elderly couple, yet Anne and George’s story is one that will effect us all one day. Haneke presents the unavoidable occurrence of losing someone you love through beautiful cinematography and unflinchingly realistic acting.

It is no secret that Anne will succumb to her illness as the film begins with authorities finding her dead body adorned with flowers, however Haneke is not concerned with teasing out Anne’s fate. Death is inevitable. What is interesting, and where the poignant story lies in Love, is how a person reaches this inevitability. 

Dangerous Liaisons

     Dangerous Liaisons is a Chinese adaptation of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’ novel of the same name. Mo Jieyu is as successful and wise in business as she is manipulative and power hungry with men. She makes a deal with playboy Xie Yifan to take the virginity of her ex-lover’s fiance, and in exchange he can have the beautiful Mo Jieyu as his prize. As with all sex wagers, chaos erupts, and what follows is a fun ride of exploitation, love and betrayal. Aided by sound acting and a compelling visual style, Dangerous Liaisons will seduce audiences through its twists and climactic finale even if it lacks any thematic depth of its own. 

How To Unsuccessfully Stalk Brad Pitt

I am not a good stalker. Up until Cannes I thought this was a good quality to have, but this festival brings out your inner crazy. Yesterday I sat in the Majestic (The hotel where most celebrities stay while in Cannes. They serve a $25 glass of champagne and have wall length tapestries, so you know you it’s extra swanky.) for two hours hoping to get a glance of Brad Pitt. Last night was the premiere of his film Killing Them Softly, and since I will be able to see it in the states I decided to stalk instead of beg. 

My stalking grounds. 

So there I am on a plush couch in the lobby waiting for Brad Pitt to grace me with his presence. You would think I would be better at something that is essentially sitting, but no. I don’t mean to promote stalking, but those people sure do have some dedication. I was getting so impatient and antsy. All I wanted was to see Brad (Naturally we’d be on first name basis.) with my own eyeballs! Is that so much to ask?  

At one point a huge group of people started to linger in the lobby. Something was about to happen. People were streaming out of the bar and then I saw him. No, it wasn’t Brad. Instead, Matthew McConaughey strolled into the lobby, got in the middle of the group, and quickly left. Although he isn’t Brad, he is a super famous blonde American actor with a gorgeous wife. Close enough for me. 

Tonight is the premiere for On the Road. I would list all the famous people who are in it, but there are so many and that is what IMDb is for anyways. I hope I get in, but no matter what I am going to see Jaws afterwards. It’s playing on the theater that in right on the beach. The idea of watching Jaws while sitting on the beach is hilarious to me. It’s like watching Titanic on a cruise.   Okay maybe hilarious is the wrong word, but after tonight I can tell the story of when I watched Jaws while sitting next to the water on the French Riviera. 

God Bless America

Frank (Joel Murray) is slightly overweight, a divorcee, and works in an office cubical. He typifies middle America. What sets him apart? He fantasizes about shooting his neighbor’s screaming infant into a thousand bloody pieces.

Fed up with society’s unrelenting cruelty and obsession with fame and materialism, Frank eventually acts on his fantasies and embarks on a killing spree in an attempt to rid the world of the morally corrupt. God Bless America starts strong but lags at the end as director Bobcat Goldthwait attempts to juggle sensational comedic violence with serious social satire.  

We are introduced to Frank right as he loses hope for himself and society. His ex-wife is getting remarried to a younger man, his daughter despises him and in the course of one afternoon, he is fired from work and diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. On television, he sees the glorification of the talentless and the exploitation of the innocent. 

Some of Goldthwait’s dialogue is a little heavy handed as he blatantly lays out Frank’s ideology in a lengthy monologue. However, his parody of a Bill Riley-esque talking head and a reality show that features airborne tampons is so sharp and disturbingly accurate that I could overlook it. In this opening section, Goldthwait does a good job of constructing a morally destitute world that makes the audience feel just as hopeless as Frank.

Frank contemplates suicide while watching a reality show about self entitled brats’ sixteenth birthday parties. With a gun aimed at the back of his throat, he watches Chloe (Maddie Hasson) brag about her attractiveness, bully her parents and throw a tantrum after receiving an Audi instead of an Escalade. Rather than kill himself, Frank decides to kill Chloe instead. 

This plays out in a well balanced scene where the comedic and satirical elements work together seamlessly. Hasson’s Chloe is so vile and Murray’s Frank is so timid and unassertive that watching him unceremoniously shoot Chloe in her luxury car is deeply satisfying. 

Frank then teams up with Roxy (Tara Lynne Barr), a sixteen year old who went to high school with Chloe and despised her even more than Frank. She convinces him to continue his killing spree, selling it as an opportunity to eliminate the world’s insufferable people. Roxy has an unending laundry list of what makes a person deserve to take “the big dirt nap,” including people who high five or use rockstar as an adjective. Frank allows her to join him, and the relationship that results is a strange reinvention of Bonnie and Clyde. 

Barr is a cheery murderer and manages to spit out her wordy Juno-like dialogue with ease, however, it is Murray’s Frank that holds the film together. He seems truly disturbed when American Superstar, a mock American Idol type show, ridicules a mentally handicapped participant. His weepy blue eyes and defeated posture in the opening section give the film an emotional foundation. Murray’s convincing performance enables you to root for a grown man who kills teenagers. 

Frank’s motives are always clear. As he repeatedly states, he just wants people to be nice to one another. I would argue that Goldthwait’s film loses its thematic credibility as Frank attempts to achieve peace by instigating violence. His intentions are moral, however, his methods are not. In contrast, Roxy just wants revenge on those who make her feel like an outsider. Frank provides the film with emotional depth, but Roxy’s visceral motivations flattens it out. 

After a much too long second half with a uninspired twist, the film reaches its climax as Frank holds the entire audience of American Superstar hostage. In yet another clunky monologue, Frank delivers generic lines like, “We’ve lost our kindness,” and “What have we become?” Of course, Goldthwait wants us to asks these questions of ourselves as Frank unblinkingly stares into the camera, however, these lines seem empty coming from someone I watched kill dozens of people for the past hour and a half. 

I would be lying if I said I hadn't wanted to put a slugger in a Kardashian myself at one point or another, but as God Bless America continues it is harder to defend Frank and Roxy’s crusade. Does the man who takes up two parking spaces deserve the same fate as protestors at a soldier’s funeral? The line between jerks and the truly wretched dissolves, and with it so did my attention for the film. 

Woody Allen: A Documentary

Robert B. Weide's film, Woody Allen: A Documentary, chronicles the fifty year career of the critically acclaimed director. A parade of actors, directors, and producers that Allen worked with over the years provide commentary on everything from the lasting influence of Annie Hall to his personal scandals. While the biographical information is interesting, it is the footage of Allen writing on the typewriter he bought in 1951, in his element directing, and reflecting on his distinguished career that the film excels. In these moments, the film becomes more than just a compilation of facts and anecdotes, and delves into the life of of a true auteur. 

Les Parapluies de Cannes

Yesterday I was a bit of a loner. After I saw a pretty terrible Italian movie in the morning (Imagine anything with Katherine Heigl, but worse. I know. I myself did not know that could be possible either.), I had some time before my Woody Allen documentary in the afternoon. It was raining on and off all day yesterday, so the streets weren’t as crowded. I realized with all my movie seeing I really hadn’t explored Cannes yet. With my umbrella in tow, I started walking away from the festival and making my way through some of the back streets of Cannes. 

I found a wonderful gelato shop where you just order a size and then can choose as many flavors as you want. As an added bonus if you get a cone they scoop it on so it looks like a flower. I got a cup, so obviously I must go back so I can get a picture of a flower gelato cone. 

Just a block down the street from the gelato is this half-inside-half-outside crepe stand. 
      Now I have been disappointed in my crepe findings so far on this trip. The past two places I have gone didn’t make the crepe in front of me, but instead reheated a pre-made crepe. Pre-made? In France? It disturbs me as well, which is why I was so happy to find this stand. Not only did I watch my crepe be made, but it came in a lovely crepe holder. Some of you may think that such a thing is unnecessary in life, but if you have ever tried to walk down a street with a crepe on a plate and a fork you know it’s a disastrous risk.

     One other note about this place. Do not sit in the inside section if you paid in the outside section, even if it is freezing and raining outside. Europe is beautiful, but damn they are cheap. It costs extra just to sit in a chair and breathe the inside air. 

Undoubtedly my greatest spoil from my walk was le chocolatier. Some were all chocolate shops others were a bakery-pastry shop combo. I found four or five of them, each with a more drool worthy display case than the next. I can confidently say that I am now a believer in the french meringue cookie. One store in particular had hundreds and hundreds of them on display in the shop. It was the pretties thing. I guess I know what I will be baking when I get back home. I had a rose and champagne meringue as I ran across Cannes to make my documentary. It was a perfect rainy day.  

Faking it and making it.

I went to sleep Tuesday night knowing that the next twelve days would be unlike anything I had ever experienced. Yes, I know that is high expectation to hold, but the past two days have lived up to it. 

Right now I am sitting in the Lumiere Theater waiting for Rust and Bone to begin. The giant screen in front of me is playing a live stream of the red carpet that I just walked down. Sadly my seat mate will not be Marion Cotillard, but I still feel quite glamorous in my upper balcony seat. Even though I’ve been in France for nearly a week, I still feel like I shouldn’t be here. After all, I am no one. 

Well that’s not true, I am someone. Someone who will beg her high heeled feet off to get a ticket to a red carpet premiere. Someone who wants to keep to a four movie a day agenda, because anything less seems wasteful. And someone who has always been that person who has loved movies a little too much. 

Although I still think it’s insane that I am here, I am following the wise words of Cannes kids who have gone before me, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” and that I have. Yesterday when a random man walked up to me, shoved a ticket in my hand to the Moonrise Kingdom premiere, and instantly disappeared into the crowd, did I scream my head off like some fan girl? No! I acted calm. I acted cool. I acted as if getting a ticket to the opening ceremonies of the Cannes Film Festival happened to me every day. 

Then when I had no idea how to actually get onto the red carpet and into the theater, did I panic and miss my entrance time? No! I did what any normal Cannes kid would do. I texted Anna Beaver and then found me a random frenchman to be my escort. Making my first premiere on my first night a rousing success. 

Now I know everyday may not go as smoothly as the past two days have, but I am prepared for that. In any moment of doubt, frustration, negativity, or homesickness, I will remember one simple thing. I am at the Cannes Film Festival. Cheesy, but effective. 

The live feed is now showing footage from inside the building. Marion (I’d like to think that if we met she would let me call her Marion) and company have finally made it down the red and into the theater. Everyone is clapping for the director and his cast. I usually hate clapping in theaters, but this is the one time where applauding a film makes sense since the filmmakers involved are actually there to receive their praise. However, the film hasn't played yet. How do they know it’s going to be applause worthy? 

No, that is negative. It doesn’t matter if they are applauding before or after the movie. For the next ten days only one thing really matters. I am at the Cannes Film Festival.