1992 was my very first year at the Cannes Film Festival (I was there for Entertainment Weekly and Barbara O’Dair), and that was the year, of course, of Reservoir Dogs, which I saw there, of course, and fell insantly in love with,.
It pained me that I couldn’t get into the press conference (it might have had something to do with people with regular pink passes being told to wait until all the pink-with-yellow-pastille badge and lordly white-badge journos had been let in first). But I did manage to attend a Reservoir Dogs meet-and-greet soiree at the Majestic, which was cool.
For mostly sentimental reasons, I can’t stop telling myself that the 1992 Cannes Film Festival (5.7 to 5.18) was my absolute personal best. Because it was my first time there and therefore it felt fresh and exotic and intimidating as fuck. I had to think on my feet and figure it out as I went along, and despite being told that I would never figure out all the angles, somehow I did. ‘
It also felt great to be there on behalf of Entertainment Weekly and do pretty well in that capacity. Plus it was the first and only Cannes that I brought a tuxedo to. I’d been told it was an absolute social necessity.
Here are some of the reasons why I’ve always thought ’92 was the shit.
The first time you visit any major city or participate in any big-time event things always seem special and extra-dimensional…bracing, fascinating, open your eyes…everything you see, taste, smell and hear is stamped onto your brain matter…aromas, sights, protocols, expectations, surprises.
Nearly every night I enjoyed some late-night drinking and fraternizing at Le Petit Carlton, a popular street bar. (Or was it Le Petit Majestic?) If you can do the job and get moderately tipsy and schmoozy every night, so much the better. (Or so I thought at the time.) A year earlier I read a quote from P.J. O’Rourke — “Life would be unbearable without alcohol”. I remember chuckling and saying to myself, “Yeah, that’s how I feel also.” Jack Daniels and ginger ale mood-elevators were fun! Loved it!
But not altogether. Four years later I stopped drinking hard stuff; 20 years later (3.20.12) I embraced total sobriety.
I stayed in a gloriously small room (big enough for a queen-sized bed and a dresser) inside the storied, exquisitely comforting, whistle-clean Hotel Moliere (5 rue Moliere 06400 Cannes), and for only $90 or $100 per night.
I attended the int’l world premieres of the following films: Quentin Tarantino‘s Reservoir Dogs, James Ivory‘s Howard’s End, Robert Altman‘s The Player (I’d already seen it twice in Los Angeles but still), Abel Ferrara‘s Bad Lieutenant, Tim Robbins‘ Bob Roberts, Paul Verhoeven‘s Basic Instinct, Hal Hartley‘s Simple Men, Abbas Kiarostami‘s Life, and Nothing More…, Baz Luhrman‘s Strictly Ballroom, Vincent Ward‘s Map of the Human Heart…perhaps not the greatest all-time lineup but each viewing felt like a big deal.
I ignored Far and Away — I’d seen Ron Howard‘s period film in Los Angeles a bit earlier, and that was enough.
I met and briefly schmoozed with Tarantino, Verhoeven, Altman, et. al. And attended six or seven cool black-tie parties.
At one of these gatherings I was curtly dismissed by Altman when I asked for a quote about the L.A. riots — “This subject is too important to be discussed in a magazine like Entertainment Weekly.”
At another event I ran into Spike Lee and showed him a newspaper clipping in which Mickey Rourke had blamed Lee and John Singleton — “The blood of Los Angeles falls upon those who instigated this revolt, the malicious prophets of black cinema” — for the disturbances. I got a great, angry quote from Lee about this, and it ran in EW a week or two later.
I was invited by Annette Insdorf to attend the annual pre-festival journalist and indie distributor gathering at La Pizza. I met a lot of people, loved the vibe and the food and the mood….all of it, pure social joy.
I’d been given a regular pink pass by the press office, which made things tolerable as far as waiting in line was concerned.
I didn’t have to file a review after seeing every damn film or report about every damn thing I’d been hearing four, five or six times daily. I only had to file a couple of 500-word stories about any angle or event that seemed newsworthy. I wrote these reports double-spaced, printed them and FAXed them to EW’s Los Angeles office (I was reporting at the time to Barbara O’Dair).
I brought along my 8mm video camera and took some pretty good footage. Do I know where the cassette is now, or any of the cassettes from that era? Of course not.
Right before the ’92 fest I’d visited the set of Sylvester Stallone and Renny Harlin‘s Cliffhanger (an interview piece for the N.Y. Times), and right after the festival ended I took a train to Prague, which I’d visited only once before (in the fall of /87), and experienced that train-robbery adventure that I’ve passed along a couple of times.
The whole trip was just flat-out wonderful. Not without hassles or surprises, but overall an adventure to remember and cherish for the rest of my life.
