The Cannes film festival is raging away on the Riviera, and, for me, the fomo is strong. I went to Cannes a handful of times in what now seems like ancient pre-Covid history, and always had a blast. Admittedly, much of its appeal comes from the slightly elitist thrill of getting to see a hotly anticipated film – Once Upon a Time in Hollywood or Parasite – long before the rest of the world.
But it’s all the weird ephemera around those premieres that I really miss: the gaudy super yachts parked alongside the Palais des Festivals with man from Del Monte-attired businessmen doing deals on the front deck; the giant billboards that would usually be advertising McDonald’s or H&M instead trumpeting the latest arthouse effort from Jacques Audiard; and, of course, the Marché du Film, the festival’s evil twin, locked away in the basement of the Palais, where distributors try to drum up interest in the likes of Killer Sofa, Tsunambee or Santa Stole Our Dog.
