Its 8:30pm Cannes time and I’m barely hanging on to consciousness after being awake for about 30 hours straight. It’s cold and rainy here, and the festival doesn’t start for two days, so there isn’t much of note Cannes-wise. I’m just glad to have successfully made the journey.
The plane ride, on Air Transat, which wasn’t a dream come true, (but not as bad as these made me fear), but mostly due to my complete inability to sleep anywhere but lying in a bed, even after 3 Advil PMs, an overpriced travel pillow, and a glass of wine. Instead, it was a total reprise of my flight to Cannes last year, where I got stoned and drowsy but not unconscious and was forced to watch a bad movie. Last year, that movie was Freedom Writers, starring my least favourite actress, Hilary Swank. This year, because the gods of the airline film distribution industry hate me, it was P.S. I Love You. Now, I’ll admit – and maybe it was the pills – I didn’t hate Freedom Writers. Despite being another entry into teacher teaches inner city kids about music/poetry/algebra/salsa dancing genre, I enjoyed it more than I expected (which isn’t saying much). P.S., even on the not-quite-verge of being knocked out, was horrendous. More so because this couple beside me in the 3 seat row.. who spent the first hour of the flight fighting about personal issues I wasn’t ready to hear about, laughed at the most ridiculously lame jokes and then cuddled at the end of the film, holding hands for 20 minutes after the credits were over and the second feature, the mildly more watchable Mad Money, had started.
Anyway.. So as a result I spent my first day in Cannes in a total daze, drinking espresso after espresso and trying my best to hide a bad case of homeless face, so that I could make it awake to my goal, 11:00pm, so as to try and make the jet lag a one day deal.