French proverb: Patience passe science.
(There’s nothing so shrewd as patience.)
Cannes, once again soaked under a deluge of rain and cold weather, isn’t how the residents and business owners of Cannes like it to be this time of year. You can’t stop the weather.
The festival so far has been mostly marked by rain, with so many umbrellas as far as the eye can see, and those cheerfully selling umbrellas on the street are the only street vendors having a good season. It was into this on Saturday that I made my way down to the Debussy to wait in line to see the Coen brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis, which was having its first screening at the smaller theater here in Cannes.
Two hours early is way too early for a screening at that theater, as usually one hour — if you have a blue badge — will suffice. But a popular screening like this one, even in the cold and rain, was going to be packed. Being at the front of the line maybe meant you could get in but I was taking no chance that I wouldn’t, after a two hour wait. In the rain.
Another blogger, Hollywood.com’s Matt Patches vowed to join me and sure enough, there he was, first in line down at the Dubussy. Shortly after that, Craig Kennedy showed up and little by little people starting crowding the line. Even the yellow-badged festival goers were lining up, on the slim chance they’d get in. You give it your best shot, even if it seems futile. Inside Llewyn Davis ought to have been shown in the bigger theater, the Grande Lumiere but for some unknown reason it was screening at the Dubussy. Perhaps it required a slightly more intimate first look or maybe there was something else scheduled at the Lumiere.
As an American traveling in Europe, and especially here at Cannes, it’s important to keep your entitlement in check. I was feeling shades of rage when one of the security-check workers made me check my computer bag. In four years attending the festival I was never asked to check my laptop bag. No one ever is. But for some reason she’d wanted me to check it. I tried really hard to just suck it up and deal. She was probably new and not yet used to which rules to break but for some reason it irritated me. Stand down, entitled person, I said to myself. Thinking back, it still makes me a little mad, not because I then had to go retrieve the bag so much but just because it didn’t make sense. Cannes is a maze but once you figure it out you kind of count on things always being the same but this time, it didn’t go that way.
The one thing you learn quickly in France, or Italy, is that if you show even the slightest bit of anger most of the time it will set you back in your goal. In America, it’s exactly the opposite. We have been conditioned to be the squeaky wheel — to huff and puff, stomp our feet and demand to speak to the manager. Try that here, live to regret it. The more I protested with her about my computer, “Jamais!” “Pourquoi?” The more she was insisting I check the damned the bag.
Once I tried to “push in,” which is how you translate “waiting in line” in Cannes, but I must have done it wrong because someone said something in protest. The guard paid me back by having me wait an additional five minutes before getting through the door. It pays to be deferential, not entitled. Smile, say thank you, do what they tell you to do. That’s the only way.
The rain was still gently coming down as the pink badges lined up across the way. We kept assuring ourselves we’d get in. How full could it possibly get to not let any of the blues in? We were first in line. We watched as the pink, pink with a yellow dot and white all filed into the theater. Every last one. Even those who skipped the line and showed up close to showtime. Only after that did they consider opening up the blue line. When they did, we scrambled up the slick, drenched stairs towards the Debussy. Another quick security check (they made me toss my soggy chocolate croissant) and we were jogging up the stairs in hopes of getting a decent seat. Alas, there were no good seats left, just the seats way off to the side. But we were in so we’d be first to see the film. No matter what, we were in.
The poor yellows and most of the blues would have been told their waiting was in vain. They would turn around and take their umbrellas somewhere else. Such is Cannes.
The crowd seemed to mostly get Inside Llewyn Davis, even though it helps to know about folk music and specifically, Greenwich Village in the early 60s. But that’s only if you’re expecting to fully absorb the movie the first time through — with the Coens that is mostly never the case. Their films are layered with subtle turns, breadcrumbs left for those willing to go looking for them. I could tell immediately this was one of those. Still, the audience laughed a few times and applauded the film generously.
When it was over, instead of racing to a wi-fi connection to jot down my thoughts I decided to thaw out with a hot meal. I was still cold after the movie ended. Craig was kind enough to join me. We found one of these little French places out of the way, up an alley of some sort, where you would normally eat outside but not on a night like this. It was a lively, warm restaurant with wine bottles on every table, plates speeding by with steaming prawns on them, a sliced apple tart on the counter. We sat down to two bowls of (French) onion soup. Then I had red snapper and Craig had duck. It was a glorious meal of overindulgence. It felt very 1% in America, but fairly ordinary for Europeans. When we couldn’t possibly stuff another thing in our mouths we left, and walked to our respective rentals as the rain came down gently.
I stayed up late to write a quick review of Inside Llewyn Davis, knowing that, as with most Coens films, I will continue to see different movies on every subsequent viewing. By the time I was done it was 1 a.m.
The next day I would be wiped out after the first screening. Since I have a kitchen I’ve been using it to stock up on groceries rather than eat most of my meals out. The additional expense of restaurants, as good as they are here, would make the cost of this trip unreasonable. After a brief stop at the local market I came home, and crashed for another five hours. Sleep feels like a luxury since I’ve been here, probably the most reliably satisfying thing about every day.
By now, the pangs of homesickness have invaded my heart and mind. A week away from my kid feels way too long. Living in the moment is a forced activity. I tried not to think about how much I liked being at home, and put my mind around the idea that there will never be another year like this one.
All the same, I’ll be happy to be on that plane, headed back to Los Angeles, grateful for my own bed, making lunches for my daughter’s school day, the hysteria of every day life as an anxiety-ridden American, entitled and awful. For all its flaws, I love my country. It always takes a trip away to remind me how much.
And now on Monday, I’m heading to the Carlton for lunch with the Coen brothers. I will ask them if they think Inside Llewyn Davis is about fate. I think it is. No matter how good Llewyn Davis was he was always going to be a step behind Bob Dylan. Doesn’t that say that there is only much you can do in the face of timing. And with that, I look at my watch and wondered what’s coming next.