"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!