An Opening Rant

In Hollywood, they say that sequels often do better box office than the original. I have hopes for this second trip to Cannes… but then again, this isn’t Hollywood. And “Credits” is a different kind of short film from “Arc of a Bird.”

I’m also doing this trip at the tail end of the festival when many folks have already left. Work commitments kept me from coming any earlier and my rationale was that perhaps with a little less of the initial noise in the opening crush, I might be able to have better connections with people.

Before I launch into my first day’s take on the Festival, I’m going to risk an “Ugly American” entry with a topic that’s bugged me for years on trips to France: the soundtrack.

Twenty minutes is not an awfully long time to sit on a shuttle bus from the Nice Airport to Cannes, but it becomes an eternity when you’re listening to 80’s American pop music. While I can sit through Tina Turner woe-oh-oh-ohing her way through the mind-numbing brain teaser “What’s Love Got To Do (Got to Do) With It?” I am absolutely clueless as to why Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” got picked up by a French radio station in 2010.

“Sacre-bleu, Philippe, do you realize vee have not played ze ode to paranoia done by that son of a Gordy Barry in years!” It’s as if the radio signals that go out into the vast reaches of deep space entered a black hole and circled back around to attack us once again.

“I always feel like… somebody’s WATCH-ing me-eee/Tell me: is it fantasy?”

I have a couple theories: a) the French Tourism Bureau has a mandatory policy that 70s disco and 80s pop MUST be played for American tourists to sort of pander to them (believing perhaps that we’ll tip better when dipped in our own pop goo); or b) it’s a well-organized plot – with transit workers, hotels and taxi drivers involved – to drive us nuts when we’re on French soil. Half an hour after landing you find a pop refrain bouncing around your brain that you won’t be able to shake out for the next several days. “Hunh-hunh, monsieur – you might have thought you could escape Toni the Basil singing ‘Mickey!’ but you cannot escape from ze Rockwell.”

“When I’m in the shower/I’m afraid to wash my hair/’Cause I might open my eyes/And find someone standing there.” Honest to God: those are the lyrics.

Part of me thinks: “Okay. Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ might be an interesting piece of cultural driftwood we could keep on a shelf in our collective cultural den.” but Rockwell? Really? As I write this I am hearing Michael Jackson’s background vocals and I know I’ll be hearing it for days.

After twenty minutes of Tina, Queen, Duran Duran, and just for good measure, Kim Carnes singing ‘Betty Davis Eyes’… followed by the ultimate indignity of Rockwell – you want to yell: “For God’s sake! You’ve had great soundtrack composers… What happened? Think about the best from a George Delerue or even Vangelis (okay, I know he’s Greek but he hung out here)! Punk drove disco music out of the U.S. thirty years ago and it’s wound up here like some destitute relative phoning you constantly. How can you people live with this stuff?! I know we started it but….”

And then you step off the shuttle bus in Cannes and see the tall young woman in an impossibly short Canary yellow dress sitting at the outdoor café sipping an espresso and think: I’m sorry. What were we just talking about?