Cannes Film Festival veterans have their words of threats advice that Cannes is unmerciful to festival virgins. I set out to this 12-day long event in the French Riviera with this notion deeply etched into my skull. And yet I was proven wrong.
My arrival in Côte d’Azur was nothing but a smooth sojourn, and despite my initiation to my first ever Cannes screening was tainted with showers (the city’s reputation for blazing sunshine is marred by a rather wet queue in the rain), and granted with a yellow press card (the lowest ever known in the existence of Cannes-kind; white and pink being the elite, blue occupying the middle-ground, and both orange and yellow practically considered the cattle-class aka zero priority), I feel quite chuffed to be here, given that the readership of this blog mainly constitute of 5 people as far as I’m aware, two of whom are family and three are devoted friends. So how the hell I ended up here is beyond me, and I keep this in mind whenever I feel like grumbling about whatever strikes my bile around here. A slice of positivity whenever I am on a bus every 6.30 in the morning on the way to an 8.30 press screening in the Palais des Festival, reminding myself this is not purely a holiday. Hope I’ll last long. A few years ago, I thought the Cannes Film Festival regularly takes place on Planet Jupiter – surreal, far-fetched, an unattainable figment of the fabulous imagination. Now I’m on this planet, and it’s fucking awesome to be here.
And oh, I managed to see The Great Gatsby, so what could be worse?