Posted on 05/21/2005 5:46:07 AM PDT by xp38
ON SOME nights, deep into the wee hours, the myth and reality of the Cannes Film Festival party scene merge into one surreal dreamscape.
Or one nightmare, if you think Cannes is supposed to just be about great films, thoughtful directors and dedicated actors.
Thursday night was one of those nights. There was a party at the former Palm Beach Casino at the Pointe de la Croisette, home of some wicked bashes at past festivals.
I have no idea what the theme or reason for the fete was. And there were no clues inside. But the "hosts" were to be supermodel-diva Naomi Campbell, who always celebrates her birthday at the festival, and her mentor-friend Nelson Mandela, merely one of the world's inspirational leaders.
That's where myth takes over: You think you might catch a glimpse of this unlikely pairing of celebrities, along with their famous friends. Then reality hits. There is a separate room with another entrance and different invitations required. Chaos reigns. Name not on the list? Screw off and die, scum.
Back to the other entrance. Suddenly, we're inside, in my case with a Swedish banker friend who used to be a film journalist. I'm in a VIP section reserved for some of the most dynamic investment bankers in Europe, men and women handling portfolios worth billions of Euros.
It is an absurd situation. Magnums of champagne, 18-year-old Scotch whiskey and Russian vodka are flowing for free. Outside the VIP sections, people pay an exhorbitant price for drinks, twice what you shell out in bars and restaurants.
The room is draped in fabric. You sit on white leather couches. The emaciated DJ (these guys are always small and wiry) is supposed to be one of Europe's best and he builds the music into a wall of sound. The circular, rotating dance floor is empty for the first hour, but is soon packed with sweat-stained bodies the rest of the night.
Overhead in cages, bikini-clad babes gyrate: The '60s go-go era is back. Among patrons, women wear frocks cut to the navel, exposing most of their breasts and often all of their thighs, too. And sometimes their "other" cheeks. Sex sells.
But all that seems tame after you wander into the Hustler suite.
On either side of a "Larry Flynt For Governor" poster, young women pole-dance, stripping down to thongs, massaging their own breasts and thrusting their butts out. Off-stage, one of them gives an eager if stunned looking French stranger a lap dance. My friend Asa, offended by such displays, gets uncomfortable. We rejoin the bankers in their VIP section.
Other partygoers don't even go inside the Hustler den of iniquity. One actor from the TV series The O.C. recoils at the thought. "It's a vibrant party scene here at Cannes," he told the Sun yesterday. "But I didn't go in that room -- no way. I saw the sign ... couldn't go in."
The Hustler room is a nightly thing.
But celebrities at these parties are rare. Penelope Cruz is supposed to be here. Didn't see her (turns out she was at an AIDS benefit). But rapper Kid Rock is pulled through the crowd, briefly stopping inches in front of me and looking like the cliched deer in the headlights. Just as quickly, he disappears into the throng surrounded by blonde nubiles.
That's the party scene at Cannes. That's what consumed actor-rocker Michael Pitt until 5 a.m. the morning before his interviews for Gus van Sant's Last Days. At 11 a.m., when he stumbled in to face the media, Pitt looked like he was on his last legs, grungy, bleary-eyed and wearing a faded white T-shirt riddled with rips and holes and stained with dirt.
And by the way -- Mandela was a no-show. Glamour, you might say, is a matter of opinion.
A good summary of the current film industry.
Making me wish for "The End Times" to start.
Want some whiskey in your water?
Sugar in your tea?
What's all these crazy questions they're asking me?
This is the craziest party that could ever be,
Don't turn on the lights 'cause I don't wanna see,
Mama told me not to come
Mama told me not to come
She said "that ain't the way to have fun, son"
Open up the window, let some air to this room,
I think I'm almost choking from the smell of stale perfume,
And the cigarette you're smoking,
'Bout to scare me half to death,
Open up the window, let me catch my breath,
Mama told me not to come
Mama told me not to come
She said "that ain't the way to have fun, son
That ain't the way to have fun, son, son, son"
The radio is blasting,
Someone's knocking at the door,
I'm looking at my girlfriend, she passed out on the floor
I've seen so many things, I ain't never seen before
Don't know what it is, but I don't wanna see it no more
Mama told me not to come
Mama told me not to come
She said "that ain't the way to have fun, no, no, no,
That ain't the way to have fun, son"
And mama told me, mama told me,
Mama told me, mama told me,
Mama told me not to come,
That ain't the way to have fun, son,
That aint the way to have fun,
That aint the way to have fun, no
That aint the way to have fun,
And mama told me, mama told me,
Mama told me, mama told me,
She told me not to come,
That aint the way to have fun,
That aint the way to have fun, son,
That aint the way to have fun, oh no, no, no
Maybe I should've listened
If Jesus returns during Cannes, would they notice? The place sounds like Hell to me.
My husband and i were in Cannes a few years ago. It was early November and I must admit it was wonderful. It was still pretty warm, the restaurants were fabulous and surprisingly the French were amazingly hospitable. We stayed at the Martinez and the staff really went out of their way. I would highly recommend it as a vacation spot off-season.
The setting on the Riviera is quite beautiful but the Cannes Film Festival is an industry event. All the unwashed public can do is gawk at the celebs since they cannot attend any screenings. A more elitist event would be hard to find.
I don't agree. I wouldn't cross the street to shake this Communist terrorist's hand. Yet, somehow, he has been ordained a secular saint.
VIP section reserved for some of the most dynamic investment bankers in Europe, men and women handling portfolios worth billions of Euros.
It is an absurd situation. Magnums of champagne, 18-year-old Scotch whiskey and Russian vodka are flowing for free. Outside the VIP sections, people pay an exhorbitant price for drinks, twice what you shell out in bars and restaurants.
Yeah that line got me too.
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