I’ve greatly respected the Venice Film Festival from afar for so long, but now I have a semblance of an idea of it…what all the devotion and exuberance have been about all along, even if I’ve barely experienced it thus far.
I’ve been coming to Venice as a low-key, X-factor traveller for a quarter-century, but being greeted and assured and credentialed by festival staffers yesterday was like being welcomed into a private, super-flush, extra-exclusive club for movie coolios…cultured hepcats only…a grand, pine-tree-shaded island for mature, well-considered cinema pleasure.
When we left headquarters last night around 8:45 pm, having worked in the royal, pre-war, high-ceilinged, uncrowded sanctum of the press lounge for three-plus hours, the vibe was so comforting and genteel…”consider yourself at home…consider yourself one of the family” and all that. I felt so honored and sheltered, so fully massaged and at peace.
We stepped onto the Line 20 (or was it MC?) vaporetto from that smallish embarcation pier on the L-shaped canal that feeds into the lagoon, and then the engine rumbled and a minute later I was standing under the night sky and inhaling that wonderful air as I stared at the golden, glowing horizon of one of the earth’s greatest cities, and then we were back at the San Zacarria dock so quickly, it seemed.
And here I am, dead awake at 3:45 am, having awakened at 3am after crashing at 10:30 pm.
I’ve been saying this for years, but there’s no city in the world that is as pin-drop quiet as Venice.
Maybe I can lull myself into an extra hour of sleep before rising at 6 am.