Less than two weeks ago, the beau monde of international society boarded their G5s and jetted to the Riviera for a week of pared-down premieres and downsized soirees...
To be sure, I use these curmudgeonly qualifiers loosely. In fact, Cannes, the crown jewel of the Cote d'Azur, is a Proustian paradise during festival time. For this is (arguably) the most important and lavish event in the world of European celluloid. The latter half of May is a constant frisson of excitement and intrigue, replete with Monacan princesses, silver-screen sirens, and the plutocrats who love them, cruising the Corniches in their Bentleys and throwing elaborate yacht parties for their colorful and very famous casts of friends. Still, this year, the fabled Croisette conjured an unfamiliar pathos. The shoreline lights at twilight (l'heure bleue, as it's known in France) loomed in the evening sky, there was nary a Russian tourist, and you could actually get a table at Tetou without hassling. The usual dusk-till-dawn revelry at the Hotel du Cap was curtailed (civilized conversation was key), and the majority of star-studded fetes were hosted in intimate digs with condensed guests lists and fewer flashbulbs. (Then again, one must always remember this is the South of France. Stateside excess is a time-honored bete noire for the French. Somehow, they have a way of infusing the atmosphere with just enough xenophobia to discourage profligates from running amok in the midst of a credit crunch!)
When it comes to film festivals, VIP galas have a tendency to trump the actual features, for better or worse. In spite of the recession, Cannes still proved to be a social mecca for many a jet setter.
To read more about the hottest tickets at Cannes, check out the article in KiptonART Magazine.
Pictured Above: Quentin Tarantino, Diane Kruger, and Brad Pitt at the Inglourious Basterds premiere
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