Half the stupid things I’ve done……were only for the pleasure of telling them », said the imperial Sacha Guitry, yet for my part I feel that some insubordination, as the end approaches, is missing from these nights – a feeling of chaos, a foolishness to tell other people, a mutiny against the well-ordered empire of cocktail beaches. At the close of the Week, the most remarkable event so far is the reversal of sweet and savory petits fours; I escape a panic attack thanks to news of the chaos outside, via Julien: « le Petit Maj’ is crazy, Damien Bonnard and Vicky Krieps are dancing with a cult of gorilla statue-worshipping bodybuilders! »
Are the real party-goers, without invitations or lists, finally taking over? In an improbable middle school in Miles-Away-La Bocca, where you waltz in however you please, Miguel Gomes’ Grand Tour finally offers this Cannes a party like no other: there’s a pinball machine, a pool table, a chapel to atone for our sins, and a karaoke bar where Luc de Libé sings along to Mylène Farmer. The Inrocks Whatsapp group-chat doesn’t believe us (“Ribeton, you fibber « ), so Bruno and I are left alone to enjoy this popular bamboozle straight out of a Guillaume Brac film, free from the vulgar sponsored celebrations of the Croisette – at last all is chaos, and we can go home.
