Leaving Cannes, up before the sun, I climb bleary-and-red-eyed into the taxi....

and, on the radio, Halls and Oates sing Maneater.



Au revoir.

"I'm on a boat...."

Behind the Palais is a harbor full of yachts – everything from wooden sailing ships to sleek, high tech white monstrosities complete with satellite dishes, radar, and sometimes (strangely) stuffed lions.


Before heading into the red carpet event, the Producer and I walked along the harbor. I wondered aloud what it must cost – per day – to hire one of these yachts. And then I saw it:

The Chicago International Film Festival has a yacht?! WTF? How does the CIFF finagle a triple-decker yacht?

“Let’s see if we can get on,” the Producer says.

“I don’t think we’re on the list,” but I am more than happy to nod my encouragement. I’ll watch.

The Captain happens to be standing dockside. “What does it take to get on the boat?” she asks him.

“You have to have an invitation or know someone who’s got one,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Oh, we know someone on there,” she says in her most optimistic Midwestern tone.

“You do, do you?”

“Sure. We’re from Chicago!” (soooooo, we must know SOMEone on there…)

“And who would that be?”

“Betsy,” she offers.

Oh, shit – I think: Betsy? Betsy?!?! Who’s named Betsy anymore!!

The Captain appears honestly surprised. “How do you know, Betsy?”

“Oh,” the Producer says. Clearly she didn’t really think there’d be a Betsy on there either…. But gamely she presses on: “Of course, we know Betsy!”

He looks at us as if to say: Don’t fuck with me, then adds: “Betsy is my wife.”

The Producer and I share a panicked look and I’m not who sure who suggests sending a copy of our Short Film up to the boat to prove our Chicago pedigree to folks onboard.

To cut to the chase, it turns out that someone onboard has agreed, based on the DVD to let us join the party on the yacht. (A party that seems very subdued.) We are asked to remove our shoes, given claim tickets and allowed on the yacht.

Mimi, the person behind the person behind the person running this soirée (come to Cannes and you suddenly realize how many French words are used to describe partying of various kinds….), introduces herself. With a bemused smile, she lets us upstairs.

While I am content to take the open table and oh-golly-don’t-want-to-impose-on-the- conversation, the Producer swings a chair around from another table for me and sits on a cushioned bench with one of the four people animatedly talking about the films of the Coen Brothers. “Really. I just couldn’t get into Barton Fink.”

I sit down and nod to the folks who give us the “who are you two?” look

“That one with Brad Pitt….” the man who will turn out to be an executive with Facets Multimedia in Chicago lobs out.

“’Burn This!’” I eagerly offer (I do all but raise my hand in the air and go “Oh, oh! Me!”) Wait! Shit, that’s the Lanford Wilson play John Malkovich and Joan Allen did in Chicago.

“’Burn Notice,’” the Producer corrects.

“Ah, yes,” everyone agrees with a collective smile: Burn Notice.

And then, something mildly magical happens…. We’re in the middle of a discussion of film. We all discuss our enthusiasms. We start talking the difference between film bashing and film criticism (and the endangered species of critic embodied by Roger Ebert. (As if on cue, as we’re talking, Michael Philips, film critic from the Chicago Tribune descends the ladder from the upper deck and heads down the gangplank to collect his shoes before either of us can say anything.))

I look around, breathe in the cool late spring air of the Mediterranean and think: I’m not just on a boat, m***erf***er.… I’m on a film boat!

Photo Miscellany

Wardrobe malfunctions

Those of you who followed the blog last year may remember “The Infamous Tuxedo Shoe Incident” involving evening wear and Super Glue.

Well, as this photo proves the shoe situation has been resolved: new shoes.

BUT as I began preparing for the first evening, slipping my bowtie through the appropriate collar fitting, the threads holding the collar to the shirt succumbed to fatigue or the hot press of the dry cleaner. Merde!!

I was looking like some silent film character with one side of my collar saluting…. Kudos to French hotels for still having buried in a remote corner of a desk drawer an oh-so teeny-tiny traveling sewing kit with needle and white thread (also black, blue and red)! Sacre bleu!

While the Producer waited downstairs with the shuttle van to the city center, I quickly sewed the collar tab back in place, zipped the bow tie in, shrugged on the jacket and headed out the door. Magnifique!

Now all I have to do is worry about what happens if I ever make it back.

SPOILER ALERT! Or Four Suggestions for Liberal Filmmakers

I should have liked Fair Game, the new film with Sean Penn and Naomi Watts, playing Joe Wilson and Valerie Plame – and certainly there are some things I liked about it that made it a worthwhile film to see.

As a Progressive (I usually use the term Liberal but ever since Glenn Simpering-Mama’s-Boy Beck has turned Progressive into a fetish, I’ll wear the label with pride), I walked into the movie predisposed to sympathize with the main characters based on what I have read about the case…. But for a film that uses the word truth with and without a capital “T”, and with and without ironic quotation marks, it left me more angry at its failures than admiring of either its message or characters.

The acting is great. The cinematography suits a Hollywood blockbuster. They spent some bucks on this – and maybe that’s part of the problem too: what it attempts to polish cleanly comes across as glib and a bit too easy.

The film has a loud-mouthed, opinionated Sean Penn playing a loud-mouthed opinionated former ambassador, Joe Wilson. Meanwhile, his wife, whose job requires her to have a bit more discretion, watches him stomp, make noise, and ultimately make enough noise to earn some enemies in high places. After a few initial fumbles (which we’ll discuss in a moment), a glaring pothole in the narrative left me shaking my head and almost irked enough to check out Plame’s book to find out if she treats the episode with similar off-handedness.

The scene in question is potentially the most dramatic – the moment when Penn/Wilson decides to send his column to the New York Times. In the film, Watts/Plame has just returned from a brutal day at the Agency. She comes in the door and when asked what is wrong, says that she really doesn’t want to talk about it. She heads upstairs and Penn/Wilson turns back to his desktop computer and begins composing the first line for his infamous New York Times Op-Ed… which led to the White House outing her as a CIA agent by leaking her identity in a bit of tit-for-tat “journalism” involving the reptilian Robert Novak. (At least Joe Wilson had the cojones to put his name to the article and offer it as an Op-Ed. Cheney had his leak ghostwritten by Novak.)

As movie moments go – this one smacks of egregious misstep if not its own outright cover-up.

Really? Plame just came home, went to bed, and Wilson never said anything before sending his article?! Or the following morning – like “By the way, honey, you know that trip to Africa I did for your employer? I’m going to write an editorial about it and see if I can get it published in… Oh, maybe the New York Times.”

Later, Penn/Wilson will have plenty of time to tearfully admit his publication of the article was a “selfish act” that had more to do with his own ego, and that Watts/Plame had maintained her silence to protect herself and her family. For me, the tremendous sacrifice Plame made before, and then after, publication is completely undercut by embracing Wilson’s position unambiguously; it is hardly so cut-and-dried as the redemptive encounter would have us believe. (What about the folks Plame worked with or the guy who sent Wilson on the mission – what happened to them?)

Just because Cheney’s White House acted reprehensibly doesn’t make Joe Wilson’s act any less problematic. Did he really not discuss it with his wife before publishing? (If not, this must have lead to some major meltdown when the newspaper arrived the next morning… Ummm, honey, did yoooooou publish an Op-Ed in the Times?) Watts/Plame is left seeming the victim of both.

And was there no discussion with the editorial staff of the NYTimes – Hey, look, fellas! We got some mail from a former ambassador on the issue of Yellow Cake, and the enrichment of uranium for a nuclear device which brings into question our reasons for promoting the idea of Weapons of Mass Destruction as a reason to go to war in Iraq… Think we should print it?

If Wilson and Plame DID discuss it, why not address it? Would an honest portrayal speak to issues Plame knew she was getting herself into? All of the rationalization and dramatic conflict that comes afterwards is brought into question by this glaring omission.

Yeah, yeah… it’s a Movie and maybe a single conflict over the course of one or two nights was used for dramatic effect later in the film – but that brings me to my 4 suggestions for Liberal “Message” movies:

1. Unless your subject’s dead, if you can’t tell the story the way it really happened, don’t make a biopic. Of course, this would force you to refer to Bob Johnson and Sally Smithers, a former ambassador and a CIA agent. But at least you won’t undermine your “truthful” story by scrambling the facts – which then leaves your critics (and in this case, a potential supporter) pointing out omissions. In this postmodern era, hagiography actually undermines any message you might be trying to make. Message or Living Hero: pick one.

2. Stop quoting Benjamin Franklin – or any other “Founding Father” for that matter! One particularly dreadful scene has Joe Wilson hectoring students with a quote from Ben Franklin about our need to defend Democracy…. Why gird your loins with the same historical flag-bedecked jockstrap Conservatives use? It makes you look as silly as they do. They want (desperately, childishly sometimes) to believe George Washington chopped down the cherry tree or stood in the boat all the way across the Potomac, because history for them is myth-making you use to foster your own agenda. They don’t use history to reflect upon past mistakes because this country never made any… U! S! A! They call upon these historical passages the same way true believers call upon any religious text – to damn enemies and put God on their side. Dancing in a circle and invoking “the Founding Fathers” – as if your case might magically be made more valid – is plain silly. I really don’t know what the hell Benjamin Franklin would have thought today; And you don’t either.

3. Speaking of invocations… Stop trying to captivate us with Bourne-Identity-drama. We’re adults. We can sit for a few minutes as you draw us into your characters rather than beat us over the head with them. The film opens with Watts/Plame showing us the life-and-death precariousness of undercover work but the bad-guy is SO clearly and comically bad and the good guy is, well, US – that it never allows the viewer to participate. The nuance that makes real drama, well, dramatic is completely missing. And sadly, Penn and Watts are such great actors that I found myself wanting more of the drama at the heart of their marital conflict and less of Scooter Libby as Golum. This movie could have been even more effective if it didn’t try so hard to demonize others but focused on personal shortcomings… which leads me to my final point….

4. Try a little real human conflict. I’m guessing that because the filmmakers felt many people didn’t know the details of this case they had to skip over interesting personal dynamics. Plame’s boss ends up shutting her down the same way every other turncoat agent in every other spy drama is left out in the cold. (To put it another way: did they ever have a relationship before he told her they didn’t? And if not, why is she surprised?) As for Penn/Wilson – if this man has as few friends and personal relationships as this movie seems to indicate perhaps its no wonder there was a bit of persecution complex. Wilson comes off as almost misanthropic, rather than the cocksure foreign service guy I imagine he really is. (The drama of the family trapped in Iraq was far more compelling but treated as a minor subplot.)

I know: other than that, what did you think of the play, Mrs. Lincoln? If you’ve gotten this far in my rant: thank you. I suppose at the heart of this entry is the disappointment that a film like this, with talent this good will simply play to kneejerk sympathizers and do little to enlighten those who might not have known about the case much less give those in the opposition pause (and cause) to consider a different point of view.

The films, Igor! The FILMS!!

One of the wonderful benefits of having a pass to Cannes is access to all the movies…. While a short film badge has its limitations, if you’re willing to pass on the red carpet stuff, many films are shown the next day at theaters around the Pavilion. (So, by the time we arrive Robin Hood which opened the festival is no longer circulating… but then again, it’s playing in town at the local theater.)

That said, being able to view film on the Pavilion screen, one of the largest screens I’ve every seen, is incredible – and the first film on the docket is a bit of neo-Italian Realism La Nostra Vita. It’s a quiet film in many ways and uses the now-ubiquitous-handheld-slightly-unsteady camera to give us a film full of close-ups and emotional reactions. The story is about a man who loses his wife and has to cope with both that loss and the economic realities in the housing market. In a strange way, it would be the perfect double bill for the film that closed out the Festival: The Tree where a woman faces the tragic death of her beloved husband and tries to cope with raising four children (as opposed to the La Nostra Vita’s three!)

The following day I saw Fair Game, the film about the Joe Wilson/Valerie Plame case. I’ll leave my liberal rant on that for later.

The Producer and I landed different tickets for films on the third day when Security Officers were swarming the place. Turns out the film she was seeing Outside the Law was the French film that was causing all the hubbub… a revisiting of the question of France’s occupation of Algeria in the 50’s and 60’s, a topic which still rankles here. No sooner had the Red Carpet and press conference ended than everybody packed up their plastic shields and bulletproof vests and went home.

My own ticket was for Loong Boonmee raleuk chat, by the Thai director Apichatpong Weerasethakul.

The title translates to: Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. I think the name translates to: Maker of Oddly Beautiful Albeit Very Slow Movies.

It is a strange thing to be at a festival celebrating the diversity of film and watching people heading for the exits. Sure, these tuxedoes and sequined filmgoers probably had parties they could be at…. But with the director in attendance in the audience!, I was startled by the reaction to the film.

By the end of the film, my entire row in the balcony had cleared out.

The still I’ve posted above captures a bit of the eeriness of the film (though it’s not that eerie, more dreamlike). When this Sasquatch character is revealed later, the make-up job is so amateurish that many in the audience laughed; I'm still not sure if that was what the director intended. Perhaps he did.

And that is sort of at the heart of what I’m talking about with these movies…. If you just want to see what’s showing at your local Cineplex, why bother sitting here? Aren’t these supposed to be cinema aspiring to something greater?

The opening five minutes of the film features a farmer looking for a large ox that has gotten away into the deep forest…. I’m not sure but this may be a reference to an old Buddhist text that likens the taming of the mind with oxherding, I also could be completely wet on that idea. The film is a strange collection of images of a man at the end of his life, suffering from a kidney disease, visited by his dead wife’s ghost and taking a journey to a cave filled with lights glittering like stars.... There is no real explaining the story of the Princess who is ravished by a catfish... save for those who might know Thai mythology. Let's just say: intense.

And that is precisely the point: how much of any film must map to our immediate understanding? Aren't films -- like books -- sometimes improved with revisiting? (Nabokov claimed you had to read a book at least twice to truly "read" it... that your first experience was simply getting to know the countryside. (My metaphor, not his certainly.))

One of the reasons I love going back to Fellini or Tarkovsky or Lynch or Tarantino is that you find something you missed. Heck, I feel that way about the Wizard of Oz sometimes which is what makes it a great movie in my book. In this case, I know I missed a great deal but I have a hankering to know more and isn't that what it's like when you meet a good friend? You want to know a little more.

[Postscript: as you may have heard/read Uncle Boonmee won the Palme D'Or. It was a bit of a surprise to me --but with Tim Burton leading the jury I think everyone thought a dreamlike film might gain some greater attention -- and respect.]

When the Producer Leaves: the Sequel

For the record: Sabine is cute, bunny rabbit cute. C’est tu. When she first approaches me, the brief giggle that precedes everything she says and her permanent smile are so guileless even her braces look cute. Sabine is the one on the far left. (We’re talking Dora the Explorer, not Lolita, dear reader.)

Turns out that she and her friend (next to Sabine) have managed to cadge a ticket. BUT according to the rules, they need someone with an exhibition badge to accompany them in. When I shrug and say “Sure” she gives a little bunny hop and looks at her friend who is negotiating the older couple next to us to be her chaperone. The older, wiser woman assures them that no one checks badges but clearly they’ve heard different.

Because the woman’s husband has the coveted BLUE ticket which apparently allows access without a badge along with a companion, there is a general swapping of tickets which thrills the two teens. Sabine breaks out her iPhone and starts texting.

In minutes we’re joined by Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail. Suddenly I am Beatrix Freakin’ Potter.

I pray that Robert Pattinson/Patterson/whatever-the-Twilight-vampire’s-name-is doesn’t put in an appearance or I might get trampled.

When I offer to take their photograph, they hop together. Each slips into a pose as I juggle digital cameras of every shape and size because each one has to have a photo.

The blue badge variable means I will now chaperone Celeste (the one on the far right). In spite of what the older woman has told us, they do indeed check the badges and briefly Celeste panics until I assure the guard she is with me. She’s still wide-eyed when we all step onto the red carpet area and watch the celebrities from the awards ceremony file out past us.

When I offer to get a picture of them on the red carpet, much to the annoyance of the guards hurrying people up the stairs, I earn five friends for life. I return their cameras and then head into the pavilion leaving the girls to hop to their own seats and enjoy the Pavilion with the same unabashed excitement and sheer glee we older, suited sorts should probably be showing.