Flim Weakly Review Special- Cannes 2019 Diary: Part Two

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Disclaimer: Flickfeast would like to make it known that at no point did we commission, or indeed assign, for Chris Wyatt to attend the Cannes Film Festival on our behalf. He makes repeated mentioning to this fact, but he is mistaken. On many levels. All Flickfeast can tell its readers is that two days ago, we received multiple pages of a broken Filofax, upon which was written the following diary entries by Mr. Wyatt. We are publishing these in the hope that it will discourage Mr. Wyatt from ever writing for us again.

Flim Weakly: Cannes Film Festival Diary Part Two

DAY TWO: May 14th

I take a walk along the croissant and end up getting lost, which is weird, because the croissant is beside the sea and the sea can’t go anywhere, so why I end up somewhere where I cant see the sea is beyond me. Anyway, this very nice couple say something to me in foreign, and while I can’t understand them, I do understand when they point which direction I should be going in, so I go that way, and end up back at the beach, where the porn stars are all gathered on the sand doing whatever porn stars do in their spare time.

There are tits everywhere, and a good deal many bums too, which belong to the ones with tits. I don’t know any of them, and after talking with one woman, wearing a tshirt that says ‘porn to be wild’, I realise that I don’t want to know any of them either. It all smells like oil and sweat when im in amongst them. This must be what Michael Douglas smells like all the time.

Speaking of Michael Douglas, I don’t see him at the festival, at all, although he might be on a yacht with that british woman that he’s married to, Kristin Scott Thomas, so you never know.

That night, I use my press badge, to attend a screening of a film all about bums and tits, but it isn’t part of the porn gathering, even though it probably should be. The film is really, really long and there’s a tall German sitting in front of me, which makes reading the letters along the bottom of the screen almost impossible, so I give up at around the halfway point and just try to focus on the visuals. But they’re made up of more ass than a donkey convention, and I start to get motion sickness, so I leave early and run into Elle Fanning outside, who is doing cool, alternative things which a bunch of hipsters, who are all dressed like they were at the Grand National, or something. I say hello, but she gives me a look that says ‘I don’t know who you are’, which, to be fair, she doesn’t.

That’s the second time I’ve done this now. I need to try and remember that even though I’ve seen them in a movie, that doesn’t mean they’re my friends in real life. To be fair, the first time was when I saw David Schwimmer in a restaurant and I went up to him to say hello. I mean, he was in a show called Friends, so what was I supposed to think?

Which is fine. Until their security start walking towards you.

I head for the nearest bar, where I find this guy named Barry that says he knows me from my column on Flickfeast. I ask him what a column is, and he starts to laugh, then he buys me twelve drinks and tries to get me to make out with his girlfriend.

I refuse to, and then he and his girlfriend tell me that I’ve been saying croissant instead of croisette, but I don’t know what either of those words mean. Even less so when they say them in French.

DAY FIVE: May 17th

I lost some of the pages of my diary today because I ran out of toilet paper, but since I haven’t actually seen any other films yet, I don’t suppose that matters. The pages did have my pin number for my bank card on it, but since I didn’t bring my bank card with me, it should be all good.

My head hurts today, because the drinks I had took a crap on my brain and made my stomach do the macarena around my ass.

I have some toast for breakfast, then drink four red bulls and I’m good to go.

Somebody at Flickfeast has sent me a text that they’ve set up an interview for me to attend, for the new Quentin Tarantino film, Once Upon A Time in Holly Hunter, which is about someone being killed by dicks.

Disclaimer: Flickfeast sent no such text to Mr. Wyatt.

I try to get into the press conference, but they say that it isn’t until next week, which doesn’t do me any good, because I only have about 75 euros left and I will need at least 40 of those to get home.

So I go back to the bar and drink some more red bulls.

Join us next week for the final part (mercifully), of Chris Wyatt’s badly planned Cannes experience.

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