Postcards From Cannes - WEB DIARY - Los Angeles Times

'I Saw it at Cannes'

May 19, 6 a.m.

The sun is just a silvery speculation on the Rue d'Antibes as my taxi (90 euros for a half-hour trip!) pulls away from the Hotel Eden. The only other cars on the road are other taxis, proof that the exodus is beginning. On the last day, it will be sheer madness — thousands of marketers and filmmakers and journalists and publicists handing over their 90 euros and making their way to Nice, so many people try to leave early. In one way, the festival is winding down — most of the hot films have premiered and if you aren't in competition for one of the big prizes, there is no point in staying.

The AmFar dinner is tonight, but even the parties are dwindling from their competitive high point. For those in town to do deals, these final days are the maddest — the lobbies in the Majestic and the

Carlton will seethe with those people trying to get commitments, making final pitches, collecting bids and business cards like the luggage-trolley pushing bellhops collect tips. Then there are all those tents and display kiosks to be torn down — the town won't get back to normal until sometime in the middle of next week.

With the insanity of LAX in mind, I arrive at the Nice airport two hours before my departure, which means I have to wait for two hours, having one last cafe au lait, one last croissant.

My flight goes through Munich with only about 20 minutes between legs; as I arrive panting to the Munich gate, I fall into conversation with a tall man standing in front of me. Was he at Cannes? Yes. What did he do there? Well, he is Josh Olson, who wrote the screenplay for David Cronenberg's "History of Violence," which was received very well by festival goers. "We got a 15-minute standing ovation at the premiere," he says as if he still doesn't believe it. "I timed it." It was his first time at Cannes, and adapting the graphic novel on which the film was based was his first project after having a script optioned. Not surprisingly, he says that Cronenberg was "just amazing" to work with and the whole process seemed like a dream. "It all just went the way you imagine it should. Including Cannes."

Then, of course, we went our separate ways — he to business class, me to coach. "See you back in the States," he said. Oh, I met him at Cannes, I'll say to a friend, should I run into him on the street. Oh I saw it at Cannes, when someone asks me if I've seen "Match Point" or "Broken Flowers" or "History of Violence." And I will try not to feel self-satisfied and snooty, but I doubt very much it will work.

A Stroll Before Saying Au Revoir

May 18, 9:00 p.m. (local time)

My last night in Cannes, I decided to treat myself to dinner on Rue de Antoine, a small winding street that curves up a hill away from the end of the Croisette and the marina. It is narrow and chockablock with restaurants, rosy with the glow of candles against white linen and streetlights, their light dimmed by the awnings stretched over the outdoor tables. The inevitable man with the accordion wanders by and hundreds of conversations, murmured over the small tables, ripple past.

But man, am I glad to be blowing this burg.

Someone told me that last year there was a T-shirt reading: "Life Is Short but Cannes Is Long," and I say amen to that. And I'm not even hanging in for the big finish. Many people are leaving tomorrow, partied out and cinema sated. Tonight's big event was the "Sin City" premiere and, of course, its fabulous after-party. All day long, people stood outside the main doors of the Palais, begging for tickets to the premiere. Some held up signs, others just chanted the movie's name like drug dealers quietly pitching a sale. There is a black market in these tickets, with folks swapping a pass to a premiere in exchange for entrée to a good party (Ivanka Trump had her birthday party here last night, apparently) or a ticket to another, more desirable, film.

Technically, you're supposed to turn in any tickets you don't use to festival officials — the "Guide Practique" claims that if you don't do so, you risk losing access to other invitation-only events. How you get the invitations is still unclear to me — those having a white accreditation badge, la carte blanche, automatically get one, I think; others get them through studios or contacts or by begging at the invitation office. Or so I've been told. Again, the jaded Angeleno in me wasn't interested enough to try, though if I'd thought of how happy I could have made a young French "Sin City" fan, I might have.

Did a little shopping before I left. If you are over an American Size 8, you are in trouble in Cannes. "Large" does not exist in women's clothing, and mediums are decidedly less roomy than in the States. I don't know what they do with women of more voluptuous proportions, but it explains the myriad diet aids — most of which seem to be in the form of wafers and powders — in the shop windows.

10:30 p.m.

I will miss this little crazy nuts town by the sea, I think. Especially at night, when you can walk and walk, ears and eyes full of light and life and the clink of glasses. Today in the easy bright sun, the water was truly azure and everyone seemed to be eating ice cream. My blisters have resolved themselves into calluses, my French resembles something approaching an actual language, and I see people I know on the street. But still, it is time to go. Because life is indeed short and mine is somewhere else entirely.

It Takes a Village (of Good-Looking People)

May 18, 10 a.m. (local time)

It is a grand and glorious day, perhaps the nicest weather of the entire festival and I am stuck in the ultra mod, artificially lit WiFi café working on all my stories. Around me circle incredibly good-looking young people in white shirts and trousers, handing out the free code cards provided by Orange (good only during the festival and in the café). Good-looking young French people are seemingly everywhere — they must have to ship them in from all over the country. Even the blue-jacketed festival "bouncers" — the guys who guard the various entrances to the Palais and International Village (which I and my power dot glide right through) are almost to a man very attractive. As are the women searching the bags and wielding the security wands. (On the list of the things I will not miss, No. 1 will be the whole wanding thing at the entrance to the Palais.) Would love to see the application process for these jobs. Head shots definitely required.

I keep telling all my friends that Cannes would indeed be fun, glamorous etc. if I didn't have to keep writing about it. But then I wouldn't have my fabulous yellow power dot that allows me to sweep past the hoi polloi in line for screenings (why does being able to cut in line give me such a sense of self-satisfaction? Surely, this is some huge character defect that must be rooted out. Something to do on the plane.)

Currently, I am sitting at a table with a Japanese journalist, a Korean journalist, a German journalist and an Austrian photographer. For me personally, this may be the best part of the festival, seeing and meeting journalists from literally all over the world. And realizing they are all just clueless schleps like myself. Gives me hope. In every café and restaurant, there is someone with their laptop open or BlackBerry going — like a bunch of high-tech Hemingways, writing where there is food and warmth and a noisy buffer against our own loneliness.

Noon (local time)

Have I mentioned that Herbie the Love Bug is here? Parked outside the Carlton. People endlessly stop and have their photo taken in front of him and I am not at all sure what this means for the future of the world, but I don't think it's good.

Seeking the Buddha of Deadpan
May 17, 11 a.m. (local time)

Hauled my exhausted self out of bed to see "Broken Flowers." Would like to say it is because I am devoted to minimalist director Jim Jarmusch, who apparently has screened every film he's done at Cannes. But no, it was to see Bill Murray at the press conference for the movie — and couldn't go to the press conference without seeing the film.(Well, technically you can, but how odd to listen to people talk about a film you haven't seen and what if Bill found out? How embarrassing.)

It is strange — this place is indeed crawling with celebrities, but as an Angeleno, I have a pretty high tolerance. Also, a historically proven understanding that just because you see a famous person, or even exchange a few words with them, does not, strangely enough, change your life in any tangible way. Natalie Portman may smile winningly at you and say your name, but she will not be accompanying you to your office Christmas party this year.

But we all have our soft spots and Bill Murray's mine, though I don't plan to rush the stage after the conference is over, demanding autographs and snapping digital pictures as some journalists, amazingly, do. I'm happy enough to see his fine familiar face a little closer to mine than when on the screen. Even if I had to come to France to achieve this.

Bill does not disappoint. The Buddha of deadpan, he can hold the attention of a film and live audience with a half-smile and a stare. Then he talks (more at the press conference than in the entire film) and it's even better.

When asked about his tendency toward minimalism, he explains that his minimalism comes "from a deterioration of ability. I have less and less to give all the time and this is the result." Yes, he, like the character in the film, has looked up former lovers, "but always in the middle of the night in a strange town — never went well, but made for an interesting evening." As for the back story of his character, well, "the back story actors are coming in later in the week."

Co-stars Tilda Swinton and Julie Delpy were in attendance, as well as the director and producers, but all eyes were on Bill. OK, some eyes were on Jim — those who wanted to "discuss" the international situation, the state of minimalism and, oddly enough, the impact of the Internet.

It's Bill's second time in Cannes — he was here 20 years ago, but "it rained the whole time so we don't count that." Is he excited? "Well, it's good you asked that," he says with that small crooked smile and the liberal use of verbal italics, "after coming in from the feeding pen of the photographers, something everyone should experience — being screamed at and having your picture taken. Now put on a happy face. But yes, I love Cannes. When I've lived in France, I watched it on television. I'm looking forward to the red carpet tonight. I hope I look good. I've been working out, though it's fallen apart in the last few days since I got here. Bouillabaisse for breakfast, lunch and dinner and all that wine." Has he experienced a midlife crisis like that in the film? "I'm just getting to my midlife crisis, ma'am, so stick around. But I have crises all the time, not how long I've been living, but the type of life I've been living. It's a real problem."

A journalist from German television who asks if film is a symbolic journey toward death, gets the goofy grin. "Well, it's the same happy sad thing you've got going," he says before responding with a "It's good to question life but you have to recognize the answers, which can be a sobering experience" sort of answer.

Am told there is a roundtable with actors tomorrow and although I have sworn, in the presence of God and another human being, to never do another roundtable, I'm tempted. Sitting at a table with Bill Murray, even for 15 minutes, even with a bunch of other journos. He might smile winningly at me, he might say my name.

I wonder if he'd be interested in coming to The Times Christmas party this year.

When Real Life Meets Reel Life
May 16, 10 a.m. (local time)

Some of the largest yachts in the world are anchored offshore, deals are being made for millions, thousands of people dine on lobster canapés and blinis — and there are still beggars on the sidewalks of Cannes. They arrived with the crowds, sometime on Thursday. Legless men in wheelchairs and women with children on their laps, finding a place along the Croisette. One man grinds an organ while his daughter, who might be 9 or 10, holds out a cup for change. But the women just sit holding the children, young children, age 3, maybe 4, trying to keep them still and quiet, holding out their hands; one has a baby so round and bonny I can't quite believe it is hers.

They are sudden splashes of heartbreak, these children, amid all the hustle and laughter and glamour. They seem well-fed and clean, neatly dressed, though the women are shabby, hair lank, skin not so much tanned as cured by the many days spent in the elements. I don't know what to do when I see them; I would give each of the women all the money I have on me if they would just take the babies off the sidewalk, lay them down in beds with their dolls. They remind me of my own children whom I miss very much — as the festival wears on, the journalists and publicists, the sales agents and filmmakers who are parents all talk less about the movies and more about their kids. But I do not have enough money to lift all of the women off the streets. So I give what I have in my pocket, watch how so many people seem not to see them at all, and move on.

In the cafes and restaurants, the work of the festival is hard and constant. "Mama mia," murmured a woman clattering a tray of plates and coffee cups down behind the counter of a boulangerie, "Mon Dieu." "Busy, so busy," said a waiter, dealing out pizzas like playing cards, pulling a wine opener from his waistband, uncorking two bottles — pop, pop — then sliding it back again like a gunslinger. "Last night til 2 a.m." He paused for a moment in the low-ceilinged second floor, stood in a breath of cool air from the vent. "But it is good, c'est bon. Good business." How strange to live here during this time, but maybe not.

Most of the action is on the Croisette and the Rue D'Antibes a block behind. Venture farther into Cannes proper, past the train station, up the hill to the main commercial thoroughfare and life goes on, with grocery bags and briefcases and strollers full of children and fresh baguettes. No men in tuxedos, no tell-tale red-strapped press bags, no badges of any sort. Just real life a few blocks away.

A Playground for Grown-Ups
May 16, 10 a.m. (local time)

Has festival fatigue set in or is it just Monday morning? Even the sun is sleeping in, only vaguely visible behind an eye mask of mist and clouds. Stores along the Rue d'Antibes and adjacent streets are shuttered; some don't open until 2 today. There are, it is worth noting, an enormous number of children's clothing and shoe stores in Cannes, possibly as many as children themselves. But it's easy to see why — even during those months it is not hosting various international festivals (the film festival is just one of several held here), Cannes is a grown-up sort of place. Yes, there is a beach, but much of it is claimed by the high end hotels with their beach clubs and cafes. The scattered small playgrounds and tiny carousel on the Croisette notwithstanding, this is a grown-up town, a place where older couples vacation and young couples would come for a weekend away. Hence the stores, which have Grandparent Fodder writ large across their doorways. Parents are also never so given to spending large amounts of money on precious linen slacks and size 6 Gaultier outfits as when the children, with all their whinging and ice cream drooling habits, are not actually present.

It is difficult to find a bookstore in Cannes. Presumably one is supposed to be spending one's reading time buried in the trades. It is odd to see all the reviews there, so piled on top of each other, particularly when each review differs so completely from the next, and from your own opinion. At press screenings, viewers tend to vote with their feet — when there is so much else going on, and you have paid nothing for the film, why waste one more minute on a film you do not like. Unless you just need a quiet place for a power nap.

Speaking of naps...Turns out the post-premiere Star Wars party was not on the Queen Mary — that was the pre-party. Guess who didn't go to either of them. Me, I'm too busy working to do anything so frivolous, and anyway I wasn't invited. Boat parties in Cannes have a tendency to run long. Folks who went to Paul Allen's bash two days ago didn't get home til 8 a.m. And since the QM2 is no longer with us, probably for the best, there was no late-night revel.

Talk About a Fashion Statement
11:15 a.m.

In the lobby of the Carlton, tables are tiny but still manage to accommodate five different conversations about territories and points and as many demitasse cups. It seems to be required by law that you enter the Carlton with your cellphone planted in your ear — I believe they hand you one at the door if you, for some remarkable reason, don't have one. And whenever a phone rings, inevitably in the ubiquitous Cellhire tone, everyone within 10 feet pats their pockets in search of the accompanying vibration — a sort of festival-wide hand dance. Also popular is the Cannes Shuffle — the constant rearranging of the stack of business cards everyone accumulates. At the Official Festival Souvenir shop, card cases are 12 euros. On another unrelated but telling note: While there is a wide assortment of styles for women's T-shirts and tanks, there are no x-larges and remarkably few larges. "I don't know why," says the tiny French clerk who is wearing, of course, a small. "But they do stretch, you know." Honey, even Lycra has its limits.

May the Sunscreen Be With You

All day long, tenders have been buzzing people out to the Queen Mary II, but tonight 600 guests will be toasting the Cannes premiere of "Revenge of the Sith." On the street, many boast the Star Wars tan - a sunburn earned by hours spent sitting and standing in front of the Palais in order to hold a prime viewing spot for the red carpet arrivals. There was some talk of the movie's rather overt politics, especially the "you're either with me or you're against me" line, but even more about Natalie Portman's shaved head.

The Almighty Euro
May 15, 7 p.m.

The hottest car in Cannes is the stretch Mini, the preferred color being cherry red. Seeing one of these poking its way down the Croisette, followed by a shiny black Humvee, is a fairly good indication that the end of the world is at hand. Cars here are a status symbol - taxis are hard to come by and so it is a mark of distinction if your studio, or sales agent, or mother-in-law has hired you a car. In theory, this should allow you and your party to get to the legendary Hotel du Cap, a half-hour away, or some of the notable restaurants outside town - like the place where bouillabaisse is $150 a bowl, but everyone who's had it claims it's worth it - or just the dozen or so blocks between say, the Majestic and the Martinez, should your party include a lot of women in heels. But like many status symbols, a car in Cannes is often more trouble than it's worth. The streets are narrow to begin with, the Croisette is blocked off in places to allow pedestrian traffic, and bumper-to-bumper takes on new and tactile meaning. So groups of shimmering ladies and tuxedoed men cool their heels for what can seem like hours while personal assistants shout into cellphones, only to turn and shrug. As inflated as the euro is, the Cannes "two minutes" is even more.

There is much grumbling about the state of the dollar. In Cannes, a cup of coffee can cost eight euros, a can of soda three. Even the smaller, shabbier hotels charge at least 300 euros a night and most insist you book for the entire festival. Breakfast at one of the big hotels easily runs to 25 euros, and that's without the seemingly obligatory champagne. With prices that high, festival-goers are forced to maintain a steady conversion denial. "If you do the math," says one publicist as he shells out for his party's cocktails, "you will never eat or drink anything here."

But while everyone acknowledges that the festival is not at the high it achieved during what they call the "dotcom year" - 2000, when, according to legend, the streets ran with money and the dollar still trumped the infant euro - most people say the weak dollar is not keeping anyone away. The year after Sept. 11 is the nadir of recent memory; now everyone is here, if slightly irritated by the prices. Parties are still lavish, the Hotel du Cap still demands cash upfront for everything, and the person with the best expense account picks up the tab.

There's 'Star Wars,' Then There's Everything Else
May 15, 2 a.m. (local time)

It's party hour, the time when so many of the big soirees begin. Yes, begin. The hot tickets are the MTV party and a bash for "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" aboard billionaire Paul Allen's yacht, the second biggest in the world (as featured in last month's Vanity Fair).Amazingly enough, I have been invited to this by an obliging ICM agent. But after the obligatory after-dinner spin to the Hotel du Cap, where the bar was full of agents, producers, the odd director or two, and a lot of women clearly infatuated with the sight of their own breasts, I am ready to call it a night. Tonight is, as I have been reminded by a series of photographers and publicists, "Star Wars." They utter this as if it were a new international holiday, like Christmas or New Year's. "Oh, I can't," they mutter when asked if they are coming. "Star Wars," they say, by way of explanation. Me, I am too old and too sober to sincerely contemplate going to a party at 2 a.m. Besides, as one American producer points out, the yacht parties are a huge time trap--"the jetty takes a half-hour," she says. "Then you have to wait for another one to get off. It's not worth it." She does concede that she had one of her more surreal Cannes experiences on one yacht - "the Bud Boat" - several years ago. "On one side, there was Fergie, on the other Claude Van Damme; now where else in the world is that going to happen?"

9 a.m. (local time)

The Queen Mary II has appeared amid the armada of yachts anchored off Cannes; for a minute or two, I thought I had been transported magically to Long Beach. Then saw someone smoking in a restaurant and knew it was all a dream. George Lucas will be given the Trophy of the Festival onboard today - amid the unavoidable sense of yacht envy, there is something Freudian afoot. Sometimes an ocean liner is just an ocean liner, but sometimes, darling, it's not.

It's perfect Star Wars weather, though can't help wondering after yesterday's gloomy skies, if it isn't a case of really good CG - if you can command the service of the Queen Mary, there really is no limit to your influence, is there?

Well, There's This Guy Named Reno… May 14

The problem with living in Los Angeles is that it spoils you for celebrity sightings. While other participants of the festival thrill to the sight of Scarlett Johansson or Cuba Gooding Jr., if you have spent any time at all at the Ivy or in the lobby of the Four Seasons, such things are not exactly adrenaline rushes. On the other hand, standing next to French actor Jean Reno is quick proof this is indeed France. Or rather standing next to Jean Reno and his security squad and the hundreds of fans who shout his name whenever they catch a glimpse of him. Posing for photos at the Hotel Martinez pool, Reno was surrounded with photographers and flanked by four very serious looking bodyguards - fans glimpsing just the top of his head over the hotel wall screamed his name and it was easy to see that he would be literally swarmed should he venture into the street alone. He is, as they say, the European Tom Cruise, which says a lot about so many things. Tall and casually rumpled, Reno has wise and world-weary eyes and a smile containing more self-deprecation, and certainly more imperfectly aligned teeth, than any American superstar. Still, he is undeniably sexy and even American women cant their bodies toward him as if he were the sun and sigh when he passes quietly by.

Dealing in the Rain
May 14, 11:00 a.m. (local time)

It's raining in Cannes, which is odd after days of perfect weather. Caught jacketless and umbrella-free, crowds gather under awnings and push into the hotel lobbies. Members of Troma, an American production company that has become a Cannes fixture, trawl by, young tattooed men in dresses and pink wigs, handing out cards for their horror films. Vendors instantly appear, as they always do everywhere, rising from among the puddles. Ten euros will keep you semi-dry. Me, I tough it out.

In the ruby recesses of the bar at the Majestic, the humidity rises to rain forest proportions. Surly waiters deliver thimbles of espresso, cigarette smoke settles into hair and clothing, people greet and meet and rise and sit, jockeying for seats and deals as if in a game of musical chairs.

The noise is deep and huge and people must shout or shriek to be heard, so heads are drawn together in non-romantic embrace. Here is the special effects guy the producer knew from two movies ago, here is the line editor now in marketing whom the sales rep worked with five years ago. Blackberrys, Palm Pilots and cell phones flash, but the real work is done in conversation.

Down the street, business slows for a moment in the various foreign sales offices; reports come in from the yachts where many sales agents have set up shop - no one is showing up for their meetings. Nicholas Chartier, a Frenchman in town with the recently formed Voltage Pictures, shrugs. "You want to send the message that you will be out of business in a year, rent the yacht." He has chosen instead a small apartment with a balcony overlooking the Croisette. "This way we can just yell out to the people we know," he says with a laugh. "Only not so much in the rain." Behind him a large-screen television shows an endless loop of clips from the films they are marketing. All over Cannes, there are rooms just like this one, filled with people peering now out into the strange quiet brought on by the rain.

1:30 p.m.

The rain is over, paused perhaps. Outside the Hotel Martinez, crowds push up to the security gates surrounding the circular drive, hoping for a glimpse of a star. "They put a lot of actors up at the Martinez because of the security," says a producer who is a seven-year Cannes veteran. "They must have heard someone was arriving or leaving or something. Somehow they always hear."

On the street, the meet and greet is up to normal levels with people stopping mid-stride to embrace someone passing or return a hail from a sidewalk café. On the yachts, business has picked up and everyone is making their meetings once again; three days ago, French was still the predominant language on the sidewalks and in the lobbies; now it is English. American English. "If you don't speak English," says the producer, "don't bother coming to Cannes."

2:30 p.m.

Rain again. The rules of Cannes: When you see a bathroom, use it; when you see food, eat it, and when you see an umbrella for sale, buy it. Hope I see one again soon.

No Degree of Separation
May 13, 10:30 a.m. (local time)

Waiting for press conference for "Where the Truth Lies" to begin: Film is about the "surprising" dark underbelly of the entertainment industry. A Martin-and-Lewis-type team (played by Colin Firth and Kevin Bacon) do telethons in front of the camera and take drugs and have lots of sex behind it. In course of tale, which takes place in the '60s and then the '70s, they are "interviewed" by two winsome young "journalists," who both wind up having sex with them (in one case, with both of them). Now, I have interviewed both Bacon and Firth, though not together, and I managed (and I'm sure this comes as a huge relief to both of their wives) to do it without having sex with them. Maybe my journalistic approach is wrong...

After the film, everyone seemed obsessed with the nudity — which wasn't even up to "Sex and the City" standards — while I was wondering what sort of interview experience director Atom Egoyan has had. Also, you need to give me a better reason for setting a movie in the hair and makeup challenged '70s.

During the press conference, Kevin Bacon revealed that actors only pretend to reveal true selves to reporters during interviews. I had to come all the way to France to discover this??? "I consider it an acting exercise," he said. I guess that's why the smart gals have sex with their subjects.

Speaking of which, I myself just got interviewed! By a young man doing a story on Blackberry use at Cannes. Wish I had thought of that.

Noon (local time)

The Cannes equivalent of press junket is the round table lunch — journalists sit at tables and the moviemakers move from one to the other in 15-minute or so intervals. Very, very strange, and the poor actors/directors don't get to eat much; surprisingly, neither do the journalists. Something about being in France makes us uncharacteristically afraid to talk with our mouths full.

The actress who plays the character who winds up dead in a bathtub cannot understand why everyone is so interested in discussing nudity. She is wearing a plunging neckline, so I suppose her bafflement is sincere.

Waiting with a bunch of journos for shuttle to Hotel du Cap. One guy has rented a bike, with a little basket and everything to help him get around. Me, I like walking; makes me feel less guilty about all the chocolate. On the van ride over, Gus Van Sant is universally thrashed. "Last Days" screened last night and was my first clue that I might actually get some sleep — nodded off at least five times, along with those members of the audience who didn't just leave. Movie is loosely (and one wonders if litigiously) based on Kurt Cobain and I have never anticipated someone's suicide with greater impatience. Didn't help that Kurt Cobain character had about three intelligible words in entire film. Also, hair perpetually hanging in eyes, which seemed to prove maternal adage about importance of getting haircut.

Soaking in the Sights and Sounds
11 p.m. (local time)

The city is on full party alert, but what sort of party — it's difficult to know. At the Majestic and Carlton hotels, couples in full black tie sweep into the night — or a Rolls. Groups of young women gone geisha — or runway feline or Britney Spears — prowl the Croisette while young men saunter by in packs, some tuxedoed, some in T-shirts and jeans, smoking or eating ice cream or both. Women in high heels and low-cut dresses hand out passes to clubs, photographers take pictures of everyone. A group of French sailors in their pompomed hats go by and huge screens flicker between the many billboards showing clips of movies from many lands.

At the Cinema du Plage, "The Night of the Living Dead" plays on a sky-high screen; viewers line the sidewalk or lounge in canvas chairs on the sand. Came all the way to France just to see "Night of the Living Dead" — couldn't they get "Rocky Horror"? In the water behind, yachts are strung with lights and laser beams pierce the clouds in an endless ballet.

On the red carpet, the cast of "Last Days" waves to the cheering multitudes. Street performers claim sidewalk corners — a gold-laméd mime with a makeshift box camera, a Versailles-ready French aristo with a cat on each shoulder, a trio of weather-beaten musicians playing, of all things, "Hello Dolly."

Bar crowds spill onto the sidewalk, into the street, patrons of two or three establishments mixing into one and the police have their hands full with scooters and cars giving up on the rules of the road and just trying to make a little progress. Children dart by on Razor scooters, parents push carriages and strollers, older couples in matching running suits hold hands while young ones stop and kiss and kiss again, no matter that a crowd bulges around them, over them, like water hitting a sudden stone.

Hotel lobbies are full of smoke and the smell of champagne, the sky is full of light, the air drenched with noise and it seems almost impossible that anyone is anywhere else tonight.

An Action-Packed Day

May 11, 2005, 8:30 a.m. (local time)

Apparently "Cannes" is French for "you will never sleep again." Between jet lag and the indescribable barrage of events to attend, people to meet, cell phone messages to retrieve, parties to crash, e-mail to read and, oh yea, movies to see, the night is too loud with shimmering excess, real or imagined, to make sleep possible. I think I've gotten maybe six hours since I got here. Two days ago. Walking down the street this morning, at 8 a.m., hair wet, head throbbing, I felt sort of like the day following a night spent playing championship Quarters. "Drink, drink, drink..." Why is euphoria so often followed by nausea?

Fortunately all I had to do was see a movie — Woody Allen's "Match Point," shown in the Grand Theatre Lumiere, which is possibly the largest movie theater I have ever been in. The mezzanine was so wide and steep I experienced slight vertigo as I "pardon-moi-ed" my way past knees and over Cannes satchels (which really are quite handy for carrying laptops, purses, and the many, many leaflets people hand you when you aren't looking).

10:30 a.m. (local time)

I won't say whether I liked the movie or not (because really, what are our film critics for?) but I did just love the press conference. First of all, it was fun because I had actually met some people the previous night, so I didn't have that first-day-at-kindergarten panic attack I had yesterday when it was clear that every journalist here knew everyone else except me. I met a lovely freelancer for the Boston Herald who has been covering Cannes for years, and he introduced me to the guy from the London Daily Mail (20 years) and both of them were clearly in with conference moderator Henri Bahar, who made sure they were going to ask questions. As one publicist said to me: "Everyone needs a festival buddy."

I would have asked a question myself but was far too mesmerized by the "microphone gals" — the comely young women who handed the mic around and who were dressed in matching pantsuits that border on the indescribable — striped bottoms, zig-zag tops all blue and turquoise and alarming yellow. Allen and the leads filed in, looking impeccably groomed but perhaps a little jet-lagged as well. The photographers blotted out the sun for a moment, all shouting "Scarlett!" (Why is there always one woman in the cast who everyone wants to shoot and how irritating to be the women who are not her.) The questions showed a deep reverence for Allen (I'm sure the actors were wondering why the heck they had dragged their booties out of bed anyway), and perhaps a little film buff preening.

Immediately following, dashed over to the presentation by Jeffrey Katzenberg and Ardman, creators of Wallace and Gromit, who will be making their feature-length debut in the fall with "Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit." Several alarming facts were revealed: Katzenberg considers the penguin in the train scene in "The Wrong Trousers" to be part of "possibly the greatest action sequence ever filmed," and Gromit was, originally, a cat. Only it turned out a dog was easier to make. (I am so happy my children are too young to read this — kingdoms may fall, but Gromit as a cat? I don't think so.)

Noon (local time)

Luncheon interrupted by hastily put-together interview with actress Emily Mortimer. ("Cannes" also seems to mean "you will never eat lunch again, either, so have a big breakfast.") Scanning the many hotels in search of the Martinez, had classic Cannes moment: Two security officers and two Cannes guards gave opposite directions (up the street, down the street), sort of like the Scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz."

2 p.m. (local time)

After chatting with the lovely Mortimer, dashed again another mile or so to see "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang." Yet another meaning for "Cannes": "There is no such thing as comfortable shoes." So that was a hundred bucks at the Walking Store right down the drain. I have to say it is just so good to see Robert Downey Jr. again in a venue that doesn't involve a mug shot. He is just a joy to watch (Val Kilmer's no slouch either). That sounded a lot like Liz Smith, didn't it? It did. Oh God, hope I can get like even five hours of sleep tonight. Can you OD on Tylenol PMs?

6 p.m. (local time)

There is a fleet of yachts anchored just off the beach and a cruise ship not too far away. The breeze is blowing over people in suits and shorts and bikinis on the beach. I have yet another interview to do, and then another screening. But music blares and dawdles and sings from the various pavilions, and everywhere is the sound of laughter and conversation. If you can imagine every circus, festival, market and concert you have ever been to along with every movie you have ever seen, there it is. That's Cannes.

Karma Electric
11:30 p.m. (local time)

Forget the parties on the beach. The most universal evening ritual among journalists is recharging all the electronic devices — laptop, cell phone and Blackberry. To do this, I have to unplug every light in my room; I then feel my way around by glow of my portable DVD player, which I charge during the day. Oh, it's a heady time indeed, but props to my brother (hi Jay) for lending me two European adapters. Without them, this blog would not be possible.

Meanwhile, I keep losing pens, which destroys my previous theory about kleptomaniac officemates. (Sorry guys.) At this rate will be unable to take notes as of Monday. Or I could buy more pens; I'm sure they sell them in the official Cannes souvenir store.

Everyone is so nice when they discover you are a Cannes virgin. "It's karma," one woman told me as she offered to contact festival officials on my behalf. "People were nice to me my first time, so you have to pass it on." Then she handed me a candy bar to keep my blood sugar up. "Drink lots of water," advised another festival veteran, actress Emily Mortimer.

Going to Cannes ... for Pizza
May 11, 2005, 8 p.m. (local time)

Had dinner at La Pizza, a favorite among publicists and journalists and Americans in general. My brother had told me to go because "It's the best pizza in the world...OK, France...OK, Cannes." And that I will certainly buy. It was very good, and I got to say "aubergine" with a really bad but earnest French accent and got actual aubergine, as opposed to a purplish sweater from Banana Republic or J. Crew. Which was almost as much fun as seeing "recherche Google," but not quite.

Coming home, the sidewalks were thronged with multitudes, in evening dress and jeans alike, all hanging about that same, now empty, red carpet. Made me want to call a famous movie star, but all of their publicists are, I think, still at La Pizza. On the side streets, it looked like prom night with young men in tuxes and young women teetering by in heels off to some exciting party or other. Me, I'm actually going to see "Match Point" tomorrow, which starts at 8:30 in the morning (is it legal to watch a Woody Allen movie that early in the morning?). Because, I thought, since I'm in Cannes and everything, I might try to catch a flick or two. In between visiting WiFi locations.

Seeing Red (sort of)
May 11, 2005, 6:30 p.m. (local time)

Having been holed up for hours filing a story and this diary, I emerged to discover that the official opening ceremonies for the Cannes Film Festival were underway outside the Palais, complete with a red carpet and swarms of tuxedoed photographers. Now I have covered in the space of less than 12 months (is anyone listed on the masthead paying attention?) the Emmys, the Golden Globes and the Academy Awards, so I am now drawn to a red carpet as a vampire to blood. But the pink pass with a yellow dot on it does not guarantee you red carpet access (and besides, my formal wear was still back at the hotel). So I got as far as my badge would take me and watched the proceedings mostly on the big screen hanging over the entrance. Me, who had a backstage pass to the Oscars this year, standing behind the security gates. The shame of it.

I was struck by several niceties the Academy might consider adopting next year. Many of the guests arrived in official Cannes cars — little black numbers (I didn't recognize the make, something too chic and economical for U.S. standards) with the emblematic gold palm frond on it. Also, there was music playing, which was a nice touch, although I couldn't help but feel it filled in for the lack of fan-screaming that marks our awards shows. The crowd was quite large but mostly silent; there was an occasional murmur, but only such as might be mustered for the Minister of Culture or perhaps, Police Chief Bratton.

As for me, I didn't recognize a soul. According to the festival website (and can I just say right here that my favorite part of being in France is seeing the "recherche Google" box) the Jury de Cannes showed up, along with the cast of "Lemming," including Charlotte Rampling, the first film of the festival, and Alexander Payne, who heads the Un Certain Regard jury. But during the 20 minutes or so I gawked, I saw what I assumed was a bunch of distinguished (and for the most part, very well-dressed) French people. Fortunately, as I stood there, a famous movie star (who shall remain nameless because that's much more fun) actually called me on my cellphone; I felt, for a homesick moment, that I was right outside the Kodak (and hideously under-dressed.) But after a while, I had to get back to work and frankly, unless I see Gwyneth or Sarah, Jessica or Johnny Depp, or for god's sake Sally Kirkland, the red carpet is just, well, red.

Salllllmaaa!
May 11, 2005, 3:30 p.m. (local time)

Just attended my first Cannes press conference. Got in, no problem — have a pink badge with a yellow dot. This is, I am told, the next best after the coveted white badge, which guarantees all access, and, I suspect, free wine and dates with cute festival staff. (Note to self: ask Turan, who has white badge, about dates with cute festival staff part.) Assembled were jurors of the main competition: Emir Kusturica, Nandita Das, Salma Hayek, Toni Morrison, Agnes Varda, Javier Bardem, Fatih Akin, Benoît Jacquot and John Woo. Guess who the photogs went for? "You look fantastic Salma!" one of them yelled, and, of course, she did, though she was wearing a glittery headband that looked a bit too much like a tiara for a press conference. Morrison, you better believe, was not wearing a tiara, though when moderator Henri Behar asked about her reaction to being asked to judge film, she replied: "I know my judgment is infallible. So this is what I bring, my infallibility and enthusiasm," and it was difficult to know if she was joking.

Journalists from Boston, Argentina, Colombia, Bulgaria, Hong Kong, Canada and France asked questions, most of them of Hayek and Bardem, who were forced to address the absence of Spanish-speaking films in the festival, the lack of Oscar nominations for Cannes winners, and the issue of whether an actor has to move to L.A. to be successful (Hayek did, Bardem hasn't).

Compared to that, jury president (and Bosnian filmmaker) Kusturica got off easy: The selection process will be consensual, but not democratic because "democrat, for me, is very difficult," the jury will concentrate on the aesthetic "although this includes morality," and the process by which this group of heavy hitters scheduled meetings is "top secret because we don't want someone to copy it next year."

Cannes Becomes L.A. — Just Like That
May 11, 2005, 3:35 p.m. (local time)

Population of Cannes has tripled during 45-minute press conference and they're all on the sidewalk in front of me. And according to the folks at the lovely Hotel Eden (and now a message from our sponsor...) most of the Americans aren't even here yet. Yikes. Took me twice as long to walk back to the hotel — guess I'll be setting up shop in Ye Olde WiFi Café tomorrow, though they seem to have a baffling reliance on Nescafé and an appalling lack of artificial sweeteners. There's also Peaberry's at the American Pavilion. (OK, they're from San Francisco and I hadn't heard of them either and they don't have steamed milk, but at least it is coffee.) Thank God I brought my own Splenda.

Pants, Paparazzi and the Palais
May 11, 2005, 2 p.m. (local time)

CANNES — If you took Beverly Hills, rolled it along Sunset, both Strip and Plaza, dipped in the parts of Venice that look like Venice and dropped the whole thing onto Manhattan Beach, you would have something that looks like Cannes. Spent the morning strolling the city — found a great open market with fresh fruit, linen cropped pants, shoes, sparkly earrings, white asparagus, lettuce that looks like a wedding bouquet and really cute undies — and all the festival buildings — where I could, if I had the skill, use all the fliers and leaflets and magazines about film that are available for free to construct a paper airplane large enough to transport me home.

Found all the various pressrooms scattered about, though pressrooms, as a rule, make me nervous. Sweaty journalists and watching people frantically filing copy in languages I can't read makes me feel paranoid and panicked — surely I should be writing something illuminating and newsworthy in Spanish or German. The WiFi Café (and it's all WiFi here in Cannes, so we do all look like participants in an Apple photo shoot) is done up in white and orange (the carrier is called Orange), sleek and modern and just a few steps away from the main press conference room.

I walked by just in time to watch actress Charlotte Rampling as her leaving — she is here promoting her film "Lemming" — triggers a healthy paparazzi stampede along the ropes that separates the stars from the press. (These ropes are the ultimate universal language after all.) Still, it's the early days yet, starwise, so you see the alarming tableau of cameramen shooting photographers and vice versa as everyone prepares for the opening ceremonies this evening.

So far, eating is proving to be a bit of a problem — the South Beach Diet doesn't translate well to Cannes, with its reliance on bread and buttery crusts. I grab a quiche (better than a sandwich rustica I figure) in the café under the Palais and share a table with a young British actress named Lisa Marie West, who's wrangled a credential through friends. After trying "a career in sales" in Blackpool, she got fed up and moved to London last September to return to acting, her true calling. When her friends told her of their Cannes connection, West let them know how much she would like to go. Likewise, she got ahold of e-mail addresses of various participants, sent out some head shots and has, she says, set up a dozen meetings with directors and producers. "You can learn your craft," she says, "but really it's all about who you know, all about contacts, isn't it?" She is pretty, all blue eyes and blond hair, both of which are featured prominently on her business card, and if it wasn't Blackpool it would have been Kansas City.

Along the Boulevard de la Croisette
May 10, 2005, midnight (local time)

CANNES — It is lovely to walk along the Rue D'Antibes at night, when the shops are shut but still lit, the mannequins frozen in perpetual pastel chic, the windows full of well-made toys, and children's shoes shine like Christmas. During the day, there is traffic and all manner of people brushing past — French women bronzed beyond recognition but flawless in beige linen and much gold; young mothers, their flat bellies exposed, trailing toddlers with gelled spiky hair; tourists in their pocketed travel vests and sensible denim outfits. Motorbikes weave past cars sleek and chic but sounding like chain saws.

At night, though, traffic disappears and the street becomes one wide sidewalk. Between the tall buildings, balconies froth with geraniums and hanging roses, footsteps echo and laughter spills down side streets, colliding at corners with conversations in many languages.

Along the Boulevard de la Croisette, street after street is full of restaurants and the restaurants are full of people, at 9, and 10 and 11, and at midnight. Close your eyes on certain street corners and you hear the clash and murmur of a huge dinner party, smell bread and garlic, rich meat and tobacco, because here it is still OK to smoke in restaurants.

People walk the streets, lovers and friends and those newly arrived, their eyes smudged with jet lag. Seemingly everywhere you look, there are lights and candles burning. People who have been here before say the festival is a zoo, but in the last evening before it begins, it seems a lovely party to which everyone is invited.

Like Robinson Crusoe...
May 10, 2005, 8:30 p.m. (local time)

CANNES — From the air, Cannes looks enough like Santa Monica that a sleep-deprived traveler might think, just for a moment, that airline cost-cutting had taken on alarming dimensions. ("Circle 'em around Playa del Rey for 10 hours, they're not getting enough oxygen to know the difference.") But disembarking at the Nice airport, we are clearly in a different place altogether, a place with palm trees but no Panda Express, where shuttle buses actually stop for passengers! Like their L.A. counterparts, the taxi drivers complain about the traffic ("C'est très difficile, c'est impossible.") but they are describing conditions that, in L.A., only occur on one of those holidays when only half the city gets off or in the moments just after a major earthquake. As my driver apologized for the line to get on the freeway to Cannes, I tried to explain, in broken French, that I have waited longer to get into a Trader Joe's parking lot. "Demain," he said sadly, referring to the opening day of the film festival, "Demain, tout le monde."

Entering Cannes, you are greeted by the sight of Kevin Costner, Sharon Stone and Jamie Lee Curtis on the sides of buildings-advertising (I think) a photography show and perhaps a jewelry line. I arrived at my hotel at 6:10 p.m., hacking and sneezing in the charming way I have after approximately 20 hours of travel. The young woman behind the counter, who was, of course, French, tried not to look appalled by my condition — trop Américaine. (The British make you feel like an idiot when they talk; the French just have to look at you. Why is this?)

Dumping my bags, I dashed off to the Palais des Festivals in hopes of getting those darn credentials — years of navigating Costco have shown me that sometimes it's better to show up at the last minute, when everyone wants to get the heck out of there, and I wanted to avoid the whole "tout le monde" thing tomorrow.

True American, I buttonholed the first doorman I could see at the Palais. "Ou est les credentials?" I hazarded. With a Herculean effort, he smiled and pointed to the series of large blue signs that literally pointed the way to a blue awning that read "Credentials." In I went to be searched and wanded.

There was no wait at all, which was a bit of a shame as the young man who produced my badge was spectacularly handsome, and after asking a few questions about access I could think of nothing to say that would prolong our encounter. He sent me to collect my nifty Cannes tote with about 10 pounds of reading material in it at a counter that was right across the way from the Cellhire kiosk.

Now this was a very good thing since my cellphone, which T-Mobile had promised me would work internationally, was not working. I am ashamed to admit the level of panic that set in when I tried to make calls from the airport and could not. I felt as I imagine Robinson Crusoe felt before he saw that footprint in the sand.

A lovely young man from New York explained the problem to me and gave me a new handheld for only 5 euros a day. The company had, he said, already rented 1,000 phones and the festival hadn't even started. (Downside: All the phones seem to have that same danged doo doo doo doo ringer, which should be interesting as the crowds increase.) He and his co-workers had been in town for two days, and already he was feeling it. "I can't get any flavored coffee," he said, laughing. "And yesterday I ordered what I thought was pasta and it was just, like, mozzarella and tomatoes." "I could kill for a Dunkin' Donut," said a young film student over to help with the American Pavilion. "French-speaking person," another Cellhire worker interrupted. "Somebody? There's a French- speaking person."

Outside, the graying sky rang with the sound of power tools as construction went on in the Palais and the International Village. For 20 minutes or so, traffic on the Boulevard de la Croisette ground to a halt while three flatbed trucks were divested of their potted palms, olive trees and petunias — I was reminded of the days before the opening of the Cathedral of our Lady of the Angels, but, alas, Cardinal Roger M. Mahony was nowhere to be found.

Inside the Palais, the many booths were still being assembled. Everywhere you looked there was plastic sheeting, posters of Japanese horror movies and handsome French workmen who, I report with mixed emotions, still make smoking look pretty darn sexy. If I were young and single, honey, I'd be working the Palais.

Vive la Difference!
May 9, 2004, 4:44 p.m. PDT

LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT — For a word that means so much to so many, it really is amazing that, after 58 years, no one quite knows how to pronounce it. When I tell people I am going to the Cannes Film Festival this year, their eyes tend to widen with the same look of enthusiastic envy they give me when I tell them, year after bloody year, that I can't make the brunch/birthday party/movie because I will be at the Oscars. "Ooooooo," they say, "look at you, going to Cannes."

Only some of them say "Caaaan" and some of them say "Caahhhn." Sometimes it is plural, as in "would you please put out the trash cans?" or "have you invited James and all the assorted Caans?" and sometimes it's not.

Many people follow up their pronunciation with an insecure "or however you say it," while others give you a look that double-dares you to question their personal selection. "It's one of those words that 20 seconds before you say it, you start wondering if you're going to say it wrong," said one of my colleagues.

This is because Cannes, which is an actual town (some people, I have discovered, do not know this), even during the 50 weeks it is not hosting the International Film festival, has a lot of baggage as a word. It is French (snooty), it refers vaguely to a host of foreign films (double snooty) and a Continental lifestyle last embodied, perhaps, by Omar Sharif (beyond snooty). So if you say it wrong — i.e. if you say it American — you might as well just admit that you always thought Graham Greene was a special St. Patrick's Day cookie.

See, I haven't even talked to the people in the festival press office and already I am riddled with anxiety. But I have to talk to the press office because Cannes, unlike most film festivals in the world, is an entirely industry event, so if you don't have credentials, you can't get in to much.

To get these credentials, you must go to the website and request a request for them (I'm not kidding). This request for a request includes, if you are a member of the print media, your business card, a copy of your publication, stories you have written previously and, if this is your first time, stories written by the colleague who preceded you. (See, already it sounds like a French lesson.) Also, it turns out, a photo.

Then, if all of this passes muster (I try to look chic and European in my picture, but as I am running late to pick up my daughter from gymnastics when it's taken, this seems highly unlikely), you can fill out your application online.

I do this en français, partly to prove that four years of high school did not lead only to my being able to read "Le Petit Prince" ("Dessine-moi un mouton") and partly because I do not see the large British flag icon that you can hit to translate the page.

There is a translator, which mercifully I found when I was about to print the sheaf of papers one must take with one to Cannes to prove that there has been an accreditation process. On the website, visitors are informed many times that there will be "more than 4,000 journalists at the festival." I think they are trying to explain why the accreditation process is so complicated, but it may also serve as a warning: "Expect long lines at any venue serving free food and a lot of arguing with waiters about receipts."

Amazingly enough, I am granted credentials, though of what sort I do not know — apparently white is best, with a hierarchy of limited access badges of all colors and demarcations falling beneath. Won't know till I get there.

I quiz as many Cannes veterans as I can about what to expect; they all smile and say, with precisely the same wording and kindergarten teacher cadence: "Oh, you'll have fun. It's a zoo, but you'll have fun." When pressed, no one is able to explain what makes it a zoo or how, precisely, I will have fun.

I learn that the wireless reception is spotty, the lines for screenings long and confusing, that one year the presence of several Victoria's Secret models gridlocked the main drag for an hour, and that everything is very very expensive. "Basically there is the Euro and there is the Cannes Euro," says my brother. "They really should just print their own money."

The best advice I get is to bring several pairs of black trousers, one nice dress and comfortable shoes. But still no one is absolutely sure how to pronounce the thing — even the French press officers split on the long and short "a" — except my German friend. He suggests a pronunciation that makes it sound vaguely obscene. I shake my head and reconsider the Treaty of Versailles.

I think I will adopt just the attitude of thespians starring in "Macbeth"; when speaking, I will simply refer to Cannes as "that French film festival." Sounds vaguely snooty and Continental, non?