The ancient Greeks dreamed up the concept of dramatic irony to highlight the rift between perception and reality. But friends, let me tell you the true* definition of ironic: I was turned away from the Hunger Games:Catching Fire party at the Cannes Film Festival, and I was actually hungry.
I know what you’re thinking. How could this happen to someone in possession of a prized pink access badge? The answer’s pretty simple. By day, the Cannes Film Festival is a grown-up affair with artists and other creative types showcasing their work to an audience of thousands of journalists and marketing professionals. But once night falls it’s straight down the rabbit hole to high school. Only with more expensive clothes and less Clearasil.
Just as in 9th grade when you couldn’t sit at the cool kids table without the OK from someone, usually a girl with much nicer hair than you, you can’t get into the hot Cannes parties without getting approval from a Lady of the List, usually a girl with much nicer hair, etc.
Which is why I found myself standing in the rain at 10 o’clock at night, watching the wind whip the palm trees along the Cannes waterfront and trying to take photos of the beautiful people from afar.
“It’s a lovely night isn’t it?” said my companion, that international journalist of renown known to us as the Trained Observer. “Very fresh.”
I brushed a gallon or so of water off my shoulders. “Very fresh,” I said bitterly.
We inched our way up the line and finally reached the checkpoint. “Is my name written there?/On the page white and fair,” I hummed softly to myself. But very softly, California humor does not play well in La Belle France.
(Speaking of Gallic giggles, they showed a Jerry Lewis film as part of the Cannes Classics series. The Ladies Man. Inside joke?)
It probably will come as no surprise that I was summarily rejected from the Catching Fire party.
Oh, cruel fate. I could smell the salty tang of fried finger foods and could almost hear the clink of cocktail artists at work. Meanwhile, the wind decided to take it up a notch from stiff sea gale to young typhoon, lashing the rain sideways.
Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink, as the old sailor put it when his buds decided to give him the bird.
But just when I thought the evening was going to be as jolly as Oedipus’s honeymoon, hope dawned. We took a short stroll down the street and found ourselves at another bash. The Trained Observer was on the list, I was not, but with a firm, “Elle est avec moi ,” in we went.
Ah, sweet victory! The lights, the dryness, the music, the young men carrying trays of nourishment, and, dearest of all, the open bar.
Two gin and tonics later I looked around at the well-dressed crowd, some talking to each other listlessly, restless eyes raking the crowd for signs of more important people to shmooze, some ignoring the party altogether and staring obsessively at their smart phones.
“Trained Observer,” I said, “Some of these folks don’t seem that excited to have been on The List.”
“I know,” said the Trained Observer. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
Cheers, classically.
*Not actually the definition of irony.