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The location should actually read, “A dingy office in the back of a luxury hotel in Cannes.”
I’m here, but I don’t have much good to say. This place is Beverly Hills on crack — everything is ridiculously, obscenely expensive, glamorous, luxurious and ostentatious.
I arrived at 11 p.m. last night. I immediately got a phone call — a job interview (by phone) for a position in L.A. Forty-five minutes, only to be told today that they declined. Nice.
Actually, it is, because then I went straight back to work, obsessing over the Crackberry (just got it — horrendously addicted already) and doing work until 3 a.m. Up at 8, into the office (thankfully a short stroll away, so I’m not just STUCK in the same hotel), and it’s now 1:20 a.m. and I’m still here.
The good news: We’ve become the little (or big) movie that could. We were horrendously worried people at Cannes would laugh in our faces when we said we were coming to play out of competition, and now we’re the hot ticket. The screening is officially sold out, our party has 1,250 people invited and is growing, and there’s no end to the nightmare of putting this thing together, making sure every detail is organized.
Then we move on to London on Monday (screening here is Sunday), and it’s just as bad there — we’ve got everything from major directors to Crown Princes attending, and the invitation/seating situation is unbelievably convoluted.
I set an e-mail record today: 455 e-mails in a single day, and only about 2% of them were “unreadable” (cc’d with other people, junk mail, etc.), leading me to this ungodly hour.
What I’ve seen of Cannes is … well, it’s hard to categorize. The place is a true madhouse. There’s even a Love Bug outside our hotel. The real thing.
No time to take photos — yet. But I will. Just to show you all (all?) I’m really, genuinely here.
