I'm sitting at Le Fouquet at Hotel Le Majestic hotel in Cannes. This week has raced by. With gossip of bombs and Isis, the Cannes Film Festival has lost some shiny appeal, or perhaps I have grown up? Still full of celebrities from Susan Sarandon to Julia Roberts, there has been more than just occasional glamour on the red carpet.
At the beginning of the week, I was in need of a rest which I did not get. I thought about life and as Shakespeare said "Love is not love which alters when alteration finds,"—plus, it was my birthday. Hey, I even found a convertible Mini to rent, so, despite the aggravation of an emotional pickpocket, I was able to feel the wind and sun in my hair.
I went from Charles Finch's party at Eden Roc, chic and interesting with photographs of the famous, including Brigitte Bardot, adorning the walls, to The BFI's brilliant and useful lunch where I bumped into the film director of Black Mass, Scott Cooper, who I had briefly met on the flight over to Nice. With parties and films, a full house, this week skipped by. When I first met Scott on the plane, I swore he was a member of a boy band who wrote slushy lyrics, not a bit of it, he was the master of Johnny Depp's film last year.
The Festival for me was about work. I want to make my next film on the life of Egon Schiele. I had quite a bit of interest so watch this space. At lunch, however, I was watching Harvey Weinstein manoeuvre his life his wife and family on one one table, on another his office.
Lady Victoria Hervey sailed down the carpet several times and had a book launch for Lady in Waiting on a boat in the harbour.
The clothes on the red carpet were dramatic, my favourite dress was worn by Georgina Chapman from her own collection—she looked fabulous! Then Rushka Bergman stole the show with her jaw-dropping couture dress by Hedi Slimane for Saint Laurent at the Chopard party. Her Instagram went mad. That is the world we live in now, Snap Chat, Facebook and Instagram replacing the conventional world of magazines which arrive on the doorsteps three months out of date unless you are Genlux and then it arrives in the correct month! We work in real time. Vanity Fair was wonderful, the people watching especially, I saw people try and gatecrash, this year no amount of charm worked on the girls with the clipboard. Oh, but my Alexander McQueen coat creased terribly in the drive to the Cap.
I wore Saint Laurent one night and Versace the next, I am only interested in films, but was pleased to join Aileen Getty last night and her foundation to support Unesco's fight for cultural diversity in film. I was proud to sit at the table with brave men and women fighting for a more perfect world.
With a packed wardrobe, I still was not crazy about anything in it and although I usually love CHANEL, I funnily did not want to look like Air Hostess this season.
Unfortunately, the films really did not hit the spot. Most were lacklustre and average—they were not for me. The stars were here in force, but the films I saw were better suited to television. I did, however, like the story Mal de Pierre's directed by Nicole Garcia. A film about a mental hospital and an imaginary love story. I loved the passion and it had the pace of Thomas Mann's novel, Magic Mountain. Marion Cotillard wore an almost see-through golden dress by Dior, showing every bit of her stunning body. One way or another she killed the red carpet.