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My boss is totally surreal. She sends me to Cannes, the epitome of expensive, and since all the hotels are full, I’m forced to stay in Nice, where the prices are so steep you get dizzy just paying for a cup of coffee. And then I ‘m supposed to sum it all up in a measly thousand words? I’m already at 60! So forget the long descriptions of the Chagall Museum or the Eze Botanical Garden or the Matisse Museum or the Fernand Lèger Museum in Biot, or the antique dealers in Colle-sur-Loup. Instead, I’ll share a private screening of scenes from my own little independent film… 1. Exterior. Boulevard de La Croissette. Day. In Cannes, everyone and everything is on display. Rich kids, perfect women, compulsive shoppers. More money, champagne, sports cars, mobile phones and cleavage than anywhere else in the world. Movie stars and teeny-weeny bikinis, against a backdrop of palms à la Matisse. The camera slowly pans over the legendary Carlton Hotel , the Majesticand finally rests on the Martinez Hotel as Woody Allen and Soon Yi are exiting. I’m about to ask for their autographs but am crushed in a throng of paparazzi. 2. Interior. Small 1940s-style hotel. Day. A sunny morning, the scent of lavender, a cozy bed and a thick comforter. I needed some mountain air and was whisked away to Grasse. I sleep in late, French-style, and enjoy being 17 kilometers away from Cannes. Grasse has been the perfume capital since 1580, when glove-maker Catherine de Medicis began scenting her gloves to cover the stench of the tanning process. The camera focuses on a waist-high shot of a “nose” at work. He trained seven years to be able to identify some 6,000 different scents. The camera follows me outside to... 3. Exterior. Grasse. Day. Red roofs and densely packed houses. Extreme close-ups of tuber roses, lavender, mimosas, orange blossoms, narcissus and Grasse jasmine, jealously guarded for Chanel N o 5 and ten times more expensive and fragrant than Indian jasmine. The camera explores the Fragonard Factory, housed in a 17th-century tannery: boxes upon boxes of soap, scented leather bundles, chests filled with roses from Bulgaria, sandalwood from India, Bergamot from Tunisia. I douse myself in 150 scents. I drink beer that tastes of roses. I wash my hands in roses. I feel dizzy. I step out for a breath of fresh air and contemplate the Rubens paintings in the Grasse Cathedral. 4. Exterior. Boulevard de La Croissette, Cannes. Dusk. I return to the crème de la crème, dressed for success. I look eight kilos lighter and ten centimeters taller, wrapped in an Agnès B dress, purse and shoes from Rue D’Antibes, Swarovski sunglasses, I wear Chanel N° 5 and a Louis Vuitton necklace. I’m here so Wim Wenders will see me – or to at least try to see him. He’s at this 58th edition of the festival to present his latest film Don’t Come Knocking. But I’m not just any fan: in addition to being super chic, I’ve got intellectual motives. I met him in 2000 at the Champs Elysées Fnac store, where he gave a cozy little talk about his film The Million Dollar Hotel – now a cult hit. Back then, there were only 30 of us. This time there will be 3,000. Now outside the Palais des Festivals, I chase after the limousines of Sharon Stone and Benicio del Toro, but I can’t see anything. I’m crushed by onlookers. I can’t breathe. Wim and I can’t see each other. My girdle is so tight I can’t breathe. Fade to black. 5. Exterior. Saint Paul de Vence. Day. Recovering from Cannes, again, I cross the fortified medieval vil- lage built on a hilltop by King François I. This is by far the best place for art lovers, who visit the Maeght Foundation and its museum, which houses romantic paintings by Chagall, Giacometti’s elongated figures, Braque’s black birds, and works by Kandinski, Brancusi, Lèger. In the garden are dozens of sculptures and a maze designed by Miró. The camera pans up the hill and twists through the streets to the cemetery, where the scene ends with a woman kissing Chagall’s gravestone. 6. Interior. La Colombe d’Or. Day. Shots of the paintings hanging on the walls of this restaurant/hotel. Picasso, Matisse, Lèger and Miró paid their bills with their works during the post-war period. A shot of a surly waiter bearing luscious escargots (snails). Exit to garden. Scene closes with Calder’s huge mobile. It’s raining. |
