Does anyone take Cannes seriously anymore? And does anyone actually enjoy it? You wait in line for hours, only to have some obnoxious "cinephile" push in front of you five minutes before the doors open. There is no reward for following the rules.
And definitely rule-breaking is a philosophy that's adopted by successive juries who preside over each festival. When actresses chair such a body of "professionals" - as with Isabelle Huppert this year - they want to make their mark in the same way they want to upstage their co-stars in a movie. Never mind the quality, feel the controversy.
It's all a show anyway, designed basically to buttress up the pre-eminence of cultural France when its influence has gone down the drain all over the world except with tin-pot dictatorships in Africa and arms sales to dubious nations.
The "problem" with Cannes is that it is constructed around the domination of the auteur - this is the much-maligned creature from the time that Cahiers du Cinema promoted him (and it was resolutely him at the time).
"Auteurs" at the time were considered masters of cinema, not imitators of cinema. It's a mark of our era that we have moved from celebrating the former to fawning over the latter. And whether it's one or the other, auteurs have their "on" and their "off" days. The selection in Cannes is not so much based on films as on filmmakers so in any one year, the quality will be inconsistent and almost always an unsatisfying mix of the unfinished, the half-baked, and occasionally the sublime. It doesn't really matter because these hapless artists are being used as fences to protect one festival dictatorship's territory against poaching attacks from another festival. Barbarians at the gate? All the time!
The pomposity of ritual that demonstrates a festival dictatorship's power has an undeniable symbolism that everyone seems to accept. Going to main competition screenings in Cannes is something like going to church or more accurately, going to the Vatican. You need to dress correctly, and your place in the hierarchy of worship is defined by your "professional" (read: "social") status.
The Anointed One (the auteur who feels justified by Cannes more than the box office) proceeds with his/her entourage of stars, producers, distributors, hangers-on along the red carpet in the forecourt of the Grand Palais (the "bunker" but really, the St Peter's of cinema). The Anointed One pauses for iconic photographs that will define him/her forever so it's not only important to look good, but to stand next to good looking people. The Anointed One then leads his procession up the long long flight of red-carpeted stairs towards the Pope (I mean Festival President) and his principal Cardinal (I mean Festival Director) who glow smilingly on the faithful child returning to show Papa his/her latest indulgence.
Whether it's like a prodigal son returning after deserting Papa for enemy territory, or a faithful son who obeys every word of Papa (including snipping the film here and there to make it more acceptable to the festival), or a newly Anointed One, the ritual not only re-affirms the Anointed One's place in the firmament of cinema Heaven, but also re-affirms the Anointed One's legitimacy in Papa's eyes, the only eyes that count.
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