What Cannes is really like when Hollywood descends

Cannes Film Festival is where Hollywood descends, and life is absurd and surreal. Photo / Getty Images

Wild scenes, juicy gossip, and secret parties: Away from Hollywood, a small town is currently overflowing with the world’s biggest stars.

I’m about to walk out the main exit of the plush hotel where I’ve just interviewed a well-known actor, when through the revolving glass door ahead, I notice an excited crowd waiting behind barricades.

Once I’m through, it’s apparent why: Bono’s on his way out, too.

Down the street, I stop to get a bottle of water. A woman in a ball gown, embellished with silver crystals, is in the line in front of me. Is she going to a gala premiere?

“Hopefully!” she smiles.

Which one? “Any!”

A photographer approaches out of nowhere, speaking urgently in French, before snapping some pictures of me and demonstrating that he’d like me to pose in an exaggerated starlet fashion.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t. The series of pictures he captures is presumably that of me making the universal “no, thanks” gesture while trying to escape.

He doesn’t mind – simply hands me a card with the address of a photo kiosk and scurries off to immortalise more equally “precious” moments.

This happens three more times as I linger in the grassy area outside the jewel in the Cannes crown, the Grand Théâtre Lumière (AKA where all the biggest gala premieres happen).

The day rolls on and brings an Angelina Jolie hotel sighting. Walking along the street to find lunch, Succession‘s Jeremy Strong is to my right. A film producer I’ve just met mentions he’d bumped into Kristen Stewart the day before.

Later, Robert Pattinson and Jennifer Lawrence are metres in front of me, stepping onto the red carpet for their new psychological drama, Die My Love.

Welcome to Cannes Film Festival, where Hollywood has descended and life is absurd and surreal.

The town is synonymous with glamour, wealth, and celebrity.

Billionaire-owned yachts are dotted all along the harbour, and the palm-lined Croisette, the main boulevard stretching along the French Riviera coastline, is populated by some of the world’s most famous luxury hotels and retailers.

And speaking of fashion, one golden rule has been regularly stressed to me by veteran attendees since the day I arrived: “You cannot be overdressed in Cannes”.

It’s true. Never before have I seen so many groups of people adhering to such varied dress codes, and with absolutely no one batting an eye.

Is it a coffee date? Is it lunch at a fancy restaurant? Are they attending the wedding of European royalty later on? Their own presidential inauguration? Impossible to tell.

At a dinner, I’m surrounded by film and TV people, swapping stories of Cannes days gone by.

“I used to have meetings here with Harvey Weinstein,” one tells me. “He was always here at the centre of it all, he loved it. Always doing business.”

I ask what he’d been like to deal with back then, and get a grimace in response.

Another tells me of the time that she and a friend had ended up at a party hosted by a former actress who had been in the midst of a severe career (and reputational) downturn, and had sadly admitted to them that she was surrounded by strangers upon their arrival.

“It was really grim. I just wanted to leave,” she tells me.

Two former set PAs are arguing about who had the worst boss. It’s between a pair of very famous actors, and both their former staffers provide excellent points for their cases – including outrageous demands and impromptu sackings.

Another day, I’m having a brief moment of solitude at a beach club bar when a foreign director plops down beside me, drink in hand.

About two minutes into our small talk, he names the very famous figure he’s recently spent time with and whom he alleges has a drinking problem.

I don’t remember exactly what I asked to prompt the information, though I think it was along the lines of, “enjoying Cannes so far?”

Meanwhile, there are two Cannes running in parallel.

The town is overrun by press and those within the film industry. The former is here to attend screenings, interview cast members, and report on related events.

The other major group is here to negotiate getting movies made – holding endless meetings to exchange ideas, negotiate deals, and sign contracts.

It’s a very different story for the handful of lucky film fans, or cinephiles, who manage to secure accreditation for the festival.

But the system is a fixed hierarchy, and they are unfortunately at the bottom of the chain – meaning that while they are theoretically able to attend screenings … actually getting a ticket can be exceptionally tricky.

The press packs were divided into a number of tiers. Photo / Getty Images

Spots are released four days in advance, at staggered times for different categories. If yours is in the last batch – well, condolences.

The highly coveted gala premieres are included in the releases and snapped up in seconds.

Most other screenings are full by the time the last group even get to log on, as I found out when I met a long line of them in the “last-minute tickets” queue outside the Grand Théâtre Lumière.

Some had been waiting for six or seven hours, dressed to the nines in black tie outfits, needing to adhere to the very strict premiere dress code on the off chance they actually get in.

And I may be one of the thousands-strong press pack, but I quickly learned that we were divided into a number of tiers, characterised by different coloured badges.

And your badge defines your very existence at Cannes.

I hadn’t realised they were colour-coded until people started glancing down at mine frequently.

There are four types: the prestigious white badge, which gives priority access to press conferences, then pink badges, then blue, and finally – yellow.

I am, as it turns out, yellow.

That hierarchy extends to the afterparties, and the most coveted of them all: the after-afterparties.

Up in the hills behind Cannes, in Le Cannet, I’ve found myself at a private villa pool party celebrating something, and hosted by someone.

I’m not being discreet here. I’ve literally not been given this information. Rather, I was just sent an invitation with an address and a vague theme.

Regardless, in the interest of providing full coverage for our readers, I have opted to hang out there, sipping champagne while looking out over the picturesque French coastline.

Just as I wonder if this might be a very brief, but significant, moment for me on the social ladder here in Cannes, I’m brought crashing back down to reality when a new acquaintance mentions his plans for later in the week.

He’s off to one of the elusive after-afterparties, which he says is hosted by Leonardo DiCaprio.

In the interest of thorough journalism, I simply must ask if he can take a guest (me).

“Ah, no. I can’t do that,” he tells me politely, scuttling away before I can push my case.

Worth a shot.