“It doesn’t matter who you are. You’ll feel like a failure and a nobody.” Those were the words imparted upon me by an acquaintance when I announced to her that I was heading out to Cannes in May 2008. Normally I’d have brushed off such wisdom as hyperbole, but this particular acquaintance happened to be the producer of the first four Harry Potter movies (combined worldwide receipts = a gazillion dollars). When someone of that standing tells you something of that ilk, your first reaction can only be to gulp.
Turns out she was half-right. By mere virtue of actually being at Cannes, and getting to rub shoulders with such luminaries as Shia LaBouf and the frog-like accountant from The Untouchables, I didn’t feel like a failure at all. A nobody, yes, but I still felt somewhat accepted there. Which makes the clinical, isolating atmosphere of this year’s Edinburgh Festival even more chilling to recall. People rush back and forth between the expo centre and the festival screenings like there’s a bomb set to explode in their chest if they don’t check in at regular intervals. Maybe it’s simply because they feel that standing still on Lothian Road for more than 30 seconds will result in a mugging or, at very least, some drunken berating from the local winos. Either way, everybody seems desperate to get to places without actually being sure of what’s in store when they arrive. Parties and networking events seemed mostly like forced meet-and-greets, where people politely explain what they do before awkwardly commenting on the buffet and moving on to the next pocket of attendees. It’s all very civil, but at the same time everyone seems so afraid of cutting loose in case they accidentally upset or offend. Of course, I hate people in general so I’m possibly not the best judge of social functions. Nonetheless, I was still desperate to hear a heated argument (that I didn’t start) or to receive an invite to the gents to do some blow.
In fairness, it’s a festival that prides itself on prestige. Whereas Cannes is a meat market of people desperate to sell you their third-rate Transformers knock-off, Edinburgh is all about cinema. There are no curveball screenings of some Z-grade horror clag or lavish press conferences. You go, you watch, you absorb, you reflect. Unfortunately – and this is wholly down to personal preference – this year’s line-up lacked any real bite. Granted, the setting doesn’t help. London has the vaguely-glamorous hosting of Leicester Square and the “fuck-we’re-serious-about-film” locale of the BFI to help maximise the experience. Edinburgh boasts the (admittedly brilliant) Filmhouse, and a Cineworld located directly opposite a tyre-fitters. There’s something crushingly unresplendent (not a word) about being ushered into a European premiere on the same screen that you saw the Scooby Doo movie.
Of the films I did bother to catch, nothing really stood out. Toy Story 3 is an oddly depressing affair; The Runaways is a bland rock biopic that forgets to include any real character shading or emotional wallop; Winter’s Bone is the kind of movie that people mutter in the same breath as the word “Oscar” for about ninety seconds and then forget about (although John Hawkes proves again why he’s one of American cinema’s most under-valued actors, despite being still primarily known for getting blown to shit by Tarantino in the pre-credits sequence of From Dusk Til Dawn). Other movies caught my attention but slipped through my grasp – partly down to bad scheduling, and partly down to my staggering indifference to the whole thing. Making myself rancidly ill after three days of not eating and staying awake until 5am (not through festival-related joviality, but rather through the generous company of city-based friends) probably didn’t help my mindset.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I was just resisting the charms. Edinburgh is a tourist trap at the best of times and generally I hate the place, so perhaps I automatically set out to berate the whole experience. I’m grateful that I’m even granted access to such events, but you simply can’t win them all. I’ll do Frightfest next. At least I might see someone’s head get pulled off, even if there’s still no blow.
Neth acknowledges he’s being overly-harsh, and knows plenty of people who had a wonderful time; as such, he’s deeply envious of them. And he’s kidding about the cocaine. Probably.
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