Yes, we Cannes!
Words: Dana Brown
It’s 1938. The Venice Film Festival is in its sixth year of existence. Not only the most glamorous and prestigious international film festival in the world, it’s the only game in town, literally – the only film festival. Now imagine you’re Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, and your son Vittorio, a film critic and producer, has a film premiering at the festival that year. Obviously, you have some pull with the jury. The top award is even named after you: the Coppa Mussolini. What do you do? You make a call. Really, any father would. Vittorio’s film wins the top award.
Adolf Hitler calls in a favour from Il Duce that year too, gently suggesting to his ally that it would be nice if Olympia, a German documentary about the 1936 Berlin Olympics, took home a major award from the festival, even though there was no category for documentaries. Mussolini is in no position to say no to Hitler. The German film goes on to win the best foreign film award. The French jury member is apoplectic. Sacré bleu!
He fires up the American and British jury members too, and the triumvirate decide to get even and plot their revenge against this fascist act of cinematic aggression. They scheme to launch a new film festival in France, to compete with Venice. And to do it soon – the next year, in fact: 1939. This revenge wouldn’t have time to get cold before being served. Damn those fascists.
But where? It came down to two small French coastal cities: Cannes, a stone’s throw west of Nice; and Biarritz, on the Atlantic in the southwest: both beautiful seaside enclaves, but Cannes had a few things in its favour. Aside from the French Riviera’s palm trees and those vistas overlooking the Mediterranean (not to mention the better weather), why not be as close to Italy and Venice as possible? Cannes is within earshot of the Italian border, and only 300 miles from Venice. That’ll show ’em.
On 1st September the next year, the world’s movie stars arrived in Cannes for its inaugural film festival. Hollywood showed up in force, its precious cargo shipped over by steam liner: Mae West, Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy and others. Such a collection of movie stars in one place would normally have been the biggest news of the day, but Hitler, no doubt egged on by Mussolini’s anger over the film festival competition, would have the last word. German troops invaded Poland that same day, triggering the Second World War, and the festival was postponed – first for a few days, then a few years, as war raged in Europe.
Did the Second World War begin because of the competition between the French and Italians’ duelling film festivals? It’s an intriguing supposition, and since the major players are long gone, perhaps we’ll never know the truth. Of course, the French not only won the Second World War – sort of, wink, wink – but as time went on, they won the battle for film festival supremacy, too. In a rout. The festival was finally held in 1946 and Cannes would go on to become the most cinematically and socially important film festival in the world. In many ways, it would also go on to be the most decadent.
Twenty years ago, I flew from New York to Nice for my very first Cannes Film Festival. It was exciting and felt like a big deal at the time, because Cannes is one of the greatest yearly global cultural events in the world, and it’s glamorous and fun. I was an editor at Vanity Fair and flew in for the magazine’s annual dinner and post-dinner party at the Hotel du Cap Eden Roc in Antibes. It’s considered the modern era’s best Cannes party and, beyond that, it was the best party I’ve ever been to. I sat with Tom Ford and his partner Richard Buckley. After about 10pm, my recollections get hazy. I know that I stayed well past 4am.
While the Vanity Fair Oscar Party might have gotten all the attention, the Cannes party was better. Smaller, more intimate, somehow both elegant and louche. There was something about being far from home, away from the one-industry town of Hollywood, that allowed movie stars to relax and enjoy themselves, get a little tipsier than they might have done in California.
Vanity Fair’s last Cannes party under the previous regime, of which I was a part, and under then editor and host Graydon Carter, was in 2017. Carter returned to the du Cap last year to host a party as the founder of his upscale digital platform Air Mail, alongside Warner Bros. I had FOMO, enviously looking at photos of the event. It took me back to the good old days, and looked as glamorous and perfect as I remember. I hope that Air Mail and Warner Bros take over the du Cap for a night again this year, and the dawn of a new era begins. I hope I’m invited.
Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Antibes
As a magazine editor and occasional screenwriter and film producer, I would continue going to Cannes on and off for 20 years. And yet I have something embarrassing to admit: I’ve never stepped foot inside a movie theatre in Cannes. I’ve never once seen a film there. I was always too busy going to parties, getting ready for parties, recovering on a sun lounger from the previous night’s parties, or drinking rosé at the du Cap, uninterested in making the drive into Cannes.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret: unless you’re a critic, on a jury, or contractually obligated to show up at a premiere, no one really goes to Cannes for the films. Because the films you want to see, the good ones, you’ll get a chance to see at some point anyway. Many of the buyers have already seen the films beforehand. You can see the films that are worth seeing when they come to your local cinema, and there’s popcorn and milk duds. A dark theatre is a dark theatre. It’s the parties, appearing and disappearing like a glamorous Brigadoon, that won’t reappear again.
Don’t get me wrong, a lot of business gets done at Cannes – it’s the biggest film market in the world, after all. But where do you think deals are made, terms agreed upon, gross percentage points divided unequally? At a party overlooking the Mediterranean at the Hotel du Cap, or the Hôtel Martinez, or any other number of restaurants, beachfront bars, nightclubs and private homes along the coast from Cannes to Nice. It’s at the parties, not on the movie screens, that the drama really happens.
I haven’t been to Cannes in a few years, but I’ll be going this year. You’ll know where to find me. At the Hotel du Cap, or the Hôtel Martinez, or any other number of restaurants, beachfront bars, nightclubs and private homes along the coast from Cannes to Nice. Where you won’t find me is in the darkness of a movie theatre. Unless Germany invades Poland again. Then I’m staying home.
Header image illustrator: Alec Doherty
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