The enclosed Lido village that the Venice Film Festival folks maintain is so damn fraternal and comforting. It’s all green and grand and flush and pine-scenty, and the cappuccinos at the indoor and outdooor cafes (at least three or four) are transporting.
Everyone is cool and approved, wearing lanyard press badges or the purchased kind, and there are no loud vulgarians or drunken gigglers. It’s all cool and settled down, everyone floating on the same vibe. It’s like being a member of some kind of flush, elegant country club on the Adriatic.
Many of us know what hardcore film festivals are like —- 18 hour days, fighting exhaustion at every turn — and it’s no vacation, but at the same time we’re all channeling a certain communal spirit. And the early-morning and late-night vaporetto rides are calming and altogether wonderful.
It rained heavily late last night, and again this afternoon. You just roll with it.
I’m back in Castello now, sitting solitary at a plastic cafe table. A half-hour ago the midnight church bell rang, echoing all over the city. Like the bells of Notre Dame.
Tonight’s screenings were Broken English and Late Fame. Both are about intimate portraiture, modest and soft-spoken and internal, and I don’t mind saying I found them touching and actually delightful.
