I’m not saying the Cannes Film Festival is principally, secondarily or even thirdly for catching zees. But if — if — you need a jet-lag napping recharge there’s no better option that the Salle Agnes Varda. Those red seats are cushy heaven. Five minutes after sitting down you’ll hear the cackly voice of Margaret Hamilton’s Wicked Witch of the West…”sleep…sleep…now you’ll sleeeep.”
Sidenote: The gaudy designs and colors projected upon the Napoleon-era Notre Dame (third photo) are a vulgar desecration — as bad as Criterion’s teal vandalizing of Eyes Wide Shut, etc.
