As the dust settles on another year at the Cannes Film Festival, Chris Sullivan, take stock, checks body parts and sees who won what at the annual prize-giving ceremony...
The skies over Cannes are buzzing with helicopters and private planes leaving the Côte D’Azur, while the Croissette reminds me of a faded film star now looking a little forlorn and slightly ragged around the edges.
As the glitterati go in search of the spotlight elsewhere, the only noise is the sound of wheelie cases being dragged across the tarmac by sweating journalists and film industry types. Compared to the hubbub of the past two weeks, it’s a ghost town.
While most of the glitz and glamour had already left, there was still a sense of eager anticipation in the air on Sunday night as we waited for the final decision of the judges in what was perhaps one of the most evenly-fought competitions in recent years.
Not one critic from any major publication had a clue as to who might pick up the prized Palme D’Or which eventually went to Terrence Malick’s Tree of Life.
I can’t say the result came as a surprise to me. The buzz about the film was immense, so much so that it was virtually impossible to see it. I tried three times and sweated in the sun for hours but to no avail.
'It was the only film I really wanted to see and couldn’t.'
It was the only film I really wanted to see and couldn’t. All I can tell you is that although the film certainly had its detractors, it was still one of the most highly lauded films of the competition.
Curiously, having taken a look at the movie’s international release schedule, the UK has yet to receive a solid opening date - so I guess I’ll have to wait a bit longer.
However, I can categorically say that Kirsten Dunst thoroughly deserved her Best Actress Award for Lars Von Tier’s Melancholia. Her portrayal of a woman on the edge of losing her mind in the face of the world’s imminent doom was simply astonishing.
Best Actor went to Jean Dujardin for his turn in director Michel Hazanavicius’s The Artist, which was also a no-brainer. It was such a magnificently fresh and bold piece of film-making that it had to win something, and Dujarin, playing the silent film star who refuses to accept the imminent arrival of the talkie, is remarkable.
Another film that had to go home with something was Hearat Shulayim (Footnote), which was awarded the Prix du Scenario/Best Screenplay for director/writer Joseph Cedar. His tale of an oddball father and son in the Talmud department in the University of Jerusalem had critics choking with laughter.
And I am so glad that that madcap Dane Nicholas Winding Refn won the Prix de la Mise en Scène/Best Director for Drive. I’ve loved his work for years and this outing is a proper wacky picture that not only borrows from some of my favourite films but somehow ends up being something totally unique.
The Grand Prix runner-up was a tie between The Kid With A Bike by the Dardenne Brothers, which I liked at the time and has grown on me some more, and Once Upon A Time In Anatolia directed by Nuri Bilge Ceylan, which left me fairly nonplussed.
What really surprised me was that Polisse won the Prix du Jury Honorable Mention. Directed by filmmaker-star Maïwenn Le Besco, Guardian film critic Peter Bradshaw considered the film to “to be a strong contender for the most awful film of the competition… Like a pretty dodgy evening in front of the television: less The Wire, more The Bill.” I wouldn’t go that far but it was heinously overacted and thoroughly unconvincing.
The Skin I Live In
More surprising for me was the fact that Pedro Almodovar’s brilliant The Skin I Live In won zilch. But that’s Cannes for you. The awards are purely the result of the jury’s opinion and I suppose that's the beauty of cinema - one man’s meat is another man’s dog food.
Still, it was a great festival featuring a good range of films, a bit of controversy and enough action outside the Palais to keep busy. Even though the official screenings were dramatically over-subscribed, the shows in the market were a welcome alternative.
What's more, I had a pretty good ending of my own. I arrived at the airport and had my cash card refused and, after looking at my bank balance online (which I’d ignored for two weeks), found I had £4 left in my account. I managed to find a £20 note I’d stuffed in the ticket pocket of my jeans which was enough to get me on the Luton train and a taxi from West Hampstead. I arrived home with £1.40 left to my name.
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