“They call me classless, I heard that. I second and third that.” Eminem
The thing I love most about Cannes is not the way the sun cascades down the sides of Monet-colored buildings in the afternoon. It isn’t the way the streets smell like wine somehow, or the way old Hollywood glamor has carved its thumbprint over the whole festival. Remnants of classic Hollywood chic have mostly faded (even in Hollywood), but wisps and traces still survive here, lingering in the impressionist rendering of our movie industry and the gods and goddesses we gifted them so long ago. And no, it isn’t the delicious array of tarts, baguettes, croissants, strawberries so plump and sweet they sing the song of a thousand Sundays laying in an imaginary field of Lavender, somewhere in Provence — me in a peasant dress, lying back and tasting those strawberries. You can’t eat just one because the fantasy demands you eat the entire basket all at once. No, it isn’t the coffee that comes in impossibly tiny cups. It isn’t the romance of this place — and maybe it isn’t even romance at all. Maybe it’s something more tawdry that resolves itself in the morning light amid discarded champagne bottles left in tunnels, abandoned condom wrappers, crinkled cigarette packs smeared with lipstick.