Cannes Diary: Anya Taylor-Joy dazzles, Barry Keoghan flies the Irish flag
Grace Van der Waal, Giancarlo Esposito, Chloe Fineman, Nathalie Emmanuel, Francis Ford Coppola, Adam Driver, and Aubrey Plaza at the 'Megalopolis' premiere in Cannes on Thursday, May 16. Picture: Doug Peters/PA
Apparently, they have a pile of red carpets — there must be a pun there — for the Cannes Film Festival.Â
The Olympics of film festivals can be as disorientating as it is hierarchal, but above everything is the rain. Organisers have to plan for the rain and the only thing more unsightly than a critical thumbs-down for a movie at the most important festival of them all is a grubby carpet underfoot.
From Coppola down to the newly minted starlets, the red carpet is as central to the piece as the lead actor. So like everything else in Cannes for the 10-day long movie marathon on the French Riviera, they stockpile.
Halfway through the smorgasbord of new titles, it’s easy to understand why. The opening day saw Quentin Dupieux’s kick things off. In the rain.
The #MeToo movement had the whiff of a sequel about it too via Judith Godrèche, who premiered her short . If Hollywood has seemingly made an awkward sort of peace with the scandal, it’s only heating up in the French film industry. Whispers of a list being released mid-festival has a lot of folk on tenterhooks.
Everyone arrives on the French Riviera with an extra piece of luggage — the tuxedo. The writers and snappers, movers, shakers, and genuine celebs all look the same in a bizarrely symmetrical movieland where even the standing ovations are synchronised. And you thought it only happened to audiences?
On day one, for this correspondent at least, premiered at 7pm. Anya-Taylor Joy showed up looking like the Queen of Cannes, Grace Kelly-esque. It screamed movie star, and that’s exactly what she is.
There are reasons passing understanding why I didn’t get to see the prequel until 8.30am the following day, but it’s the most fun I’ve had in a morning tux in quite some time.Â
If there’s any film to wake you from your slumber in jarring fashion, it’s this roaring, humming, diesel-fuelled cornucopia of sound. I was perched way up in the Grande Theatre Lumiere nosebleeds but nothing was lost in the journey from screen to bleachers. It’s also a reliable indicator that I never felt its two-and-a-half-hour runtime or remember once that it was early in the morning. It was a pure adrenaline watch.
Con Houlihan once wrote how he never really understand the unadulterated joy of Italia 90 because he was there. Cannes is quite like that. Everything is on the run. Breakfast. Screenings. Dinner. Press conferences. Blank laptop screens. Galloping from screening to the next is speed-dating with credits at the end.
The press conference was directly after the film. Director George Miller seemed proud as punch, looking gleefully at his two superstars— Taylor-Joy and Chris Hemsworth — on either side of him as they spoke reverentially of him and the film.
One writer with a quicker wit than mine likened Hemsworth’s scene-chewing villain Dr Dementus to a cross between Darth Vader and a Looney Tune, and got the biggest laugh of the presser. I needed to either lie down or take to the sea after that, and chose the latter.
Somewhere over the course of the first two days, I missed the memo that they had dropped the mandatory tuxedo thing. Arriving like a frazzled penguin at the premiere for 3.30pm, I may have been one of four men present (excluding cast and crew, of which I was neither) in a tuxedo. Suddenly, I felt rather important.
Bird received a seven-minute standing ovation, which may seem excessive but is fairly standard in Cannes. It was all quite wholesome. Andrea Arnold mustered up some tears, Barry Keoghan fixed young co-star Jason Buda’s bow tie as if still in character, breakout talent Nykiya Adams was handed a microphone and spoke beautifully on her experience working on her first film.
I laughed at the right moments. I was beginning to find my bearings. I was ready to take it up a notch and so started ignoring the colour-coded wristbands et al and weaselling my way into some of the invite-only beach parties along the Croisette. I felt like a mutt at Crufts as they sent me on my way down town to the next overpriced cocktail and elaborately dressed croissant. Things to work on for next year, Page 1.
Friday brought with it an early start, but it was Coppola, and his long-awaited passion project, .Â
I don’t want to sound harsh and one could say it’s easy to see where the budget went on the project. But little of it was put to good use. This could well be the most head-spinning, confounding theatrical experience I’ve ever had. There’s a temptation here to call a spade an agricultural implement but let’s call it a spade: I hated it.
Coppola’s latest touches on the concept of time, stopping time, using time, the passing of time. I wish I could have turned back time and warned the denizens holding sheets of paper reading ‘one ticket for please’ to not waste their time and enjoy the waves and local cuisine instead.
Despite my distaste for , it was difficult not to be won over by Coppola in the press conference, his utter love for the project infectious.Â
Giancarlo Esposito spoke loudly and poetically about the "importance" of the film as if he were belting out a Shakespearean soliloquy — a born performer. Adam Driver did his best to deflect every question aimed at him to someone else. It was a delight of sorts to see so many legends on the stage, the likes of veterans Laurence Fishburne, Jon Voight, Talia Shire (sister of Francis), and Esposito making it look like a testimonial match involving former football greats.
Barry Keoghan and Robbie Ryan flew the Irish flag at the presser on Friday morning. Ryan even went so far as to arrive in a green shirt. Keoghan, to his credit, looked more like a lad ready to foot turf. It’s Cannes after all.
Now we head for Yorgos Lanthimos’ . I wouldn’t imagine anything on the weird scale could top , but if there’s a director who's good to say ‘hold my beer’, it's the Greek maestro.
