Every year hundreds of journalists and thousands of fans descend on the glamorous French Riviera coastal town of Cannes for two weeks of socializing, movie star watching and high living.
That's what my brother and I hoped for when we arrived in our battered, rusted and taped-up 'Hoopty' car on May 15 for Canne's 53rd festival. I was a U.S. Army soldier stationed in Vicenza, Italy, and my brother Ryan was staying with me for the summer. The jaunt to the Cannes Film Festival was part of a week long trip through the Italian and French Rivieras. While sunning in the nearby city of Nice we heard from some American college students about the festival and decided to check it out.
I've always wanted to rub elbows with movie stars and thought this was as good a time as any. But one of the students rained down on our parade when they told us about the security at the festival. Apparently, most of the socializing takes place at 'guest-only' parties and the movie stars are only visible from behind rope and police barriers during each movie premier. Oh, hell no! Ryan and I wanted to meet movie stars and no security dragnet would stop us - but, more on that later.
The festival is one of the world's best known because it's a good showcase for the hottest new directors, actors and actresses. Hundreds of movies are screened around the clock, the most important of which are shown in the monstrous hotel/casino/theater called the Palais des Festivals. The whole set up is very unique, glitzy and snobbish.
Most of the action takes place in the Palais des Festivals and our expectations rose as we walked toward the building. Walking through Cannes en route to the theater and taking in the smells and sights of the crowded French city was fun, but our excitement quickly dropped when we reached the Palais des Festivals and began counting the number of French police stationed around it. I think I got to 60 before giving up. If we wanted to watch a movie premier we would have to plan our attack carefully.
A few beers at local cafés and a couple of swigs from our own private backpack stash and gave us the courage we needed to commence Operation Infiltrate Snobville.
We attempted the direct approach first and tried walking casually into each of the Palais' half-dozen entrances. Each time the police and bouncers turned us back. Next my brother tried distracting the entrance Nazis with conversation and jokes while I slid into a group. I was wearing my most respectable clothes - jeans and a bright-orange Netherlands soccer jersey - but it didn't blend in too well with the group's suit and ties. I was kicked out again.
Not everyone was dressed nicely, and it took me a second to realize that I wasn't being let in because I didn't have a Palais des Festivals Entrance Pass clipped to my shirt. The next step in our plan was trying to get a hold of one of these passes. Bribes and begging didn't work. This was a tough crowd. We checked the local stores for pass-making material - a laminator, creamy-white paper, and passport photos - but to no avail.
I noticed that a lot of journalists were hovering about so I offered one some cash if I could borrow his camera. He cursed me out as only a Frenchman can.
Next my brother and I walked around the building looking for toilet windows to climb through but there was nothing. We thought about swimming out into the Cannes harbor for one of the yacht parties but decided against it.
As a last gasp we went to the gates and tried to buy some movie tickets. Only a few tickets to each premier are available to the general public and these are sold for high prices. So, we admitted defeat and made our way through throngs of annoying (but cute and perky) girls to watch the stars' arrival for a premier.
Now if you're only going to be in Cannes for a day or so you need to watch one of these spectacles. About one hour before show time the Palais des Festivals' worker bees lay out a new strip of red velvet carpet. Next come droves of journalists toting very expensive still and video cameras. When we were about 20 minutes away from the premier's start a long line of French police sporting white gloves and ivory pistols moved in. When the music started a long line of automobiles, ranging from sleek-black limousines to souped-up Jeep Cherokees, arrived and began depositing their stars.
We were lucky in that the premier we picked - O Brother, Where Art Thou? - drew a cool group of stars. Chris Rock and Anna McDowell got a healthy dose of applause and shrieks, but nothing prepared us for the arrival of Monsieur (George) Clooney. The girls around me nearly blew out my eardrums with shrieks and screams. I was pushed against the metal railing by a pair of pouty-lipped French girls who were so intent on getting Clooney's autograph that they didn't feel my brother pinching their butts. Oh well, whatever gets our rocks off, right?
After a few waves and smiles, Clooney and his entourage entered the Palais and the spectacle quickly wound down. We were able to get a worker bee to cut us a strip of red carpet as a souvenir, so the whole thing wasn't a complete waste. I can already predict the conversation I'll have with my grandkids 40 years from now:
Kids: "Grandpa Kelley, why is there red carpet framed and hanging on the wall?"
Me (between coughs and hacks): "Why, when I went to the 53rd Cannes Film Festival George Clooney spit on that very strip of carpet and Chris Rock grabbed himself as he walked across it."
Kids: "Who the hell were they?"
The remainder of our day was spent getting drunk with other people who couldn't get into a movie premier. A word of advice for anyone who goes to the Cannes Film Festival - make hotel or hostel reservations months in advance, spend the extra cash to get a movie ticket, and don't show up expecting to meet movie stars.
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