To give up is to die a little, and true Cannes diehards know full well that the worst mistake you can possibly make here is to rest for an evening, at the risk of falling out of sync with the flow and never getting up from that knee to the ground that it’s nevertheless tempting to put down, on this traditionally blurry Sunday during which everyone can feel the aftermath of the Langlois party. Everyone? No, not really: Jacky, who wasn’t able to get in, went to a club on the heights of Cannes instead, where he pretended to be « the night columnist for Les Inrocks” in order to get in. In the light of this, what if we all became the night columnist for Les Inrocks? Grow a beard, put on a Hawaiian shirt, give my name at the door, and let’s all assume the role of a flamboyant and unmanageable collective character akin to Tony Clifton, Andy Kaufman’s lounge crooner. Let’s create chaos, the worst nightmare of every bouncer: is it real or fake? Thanks to your testimonials, I’ll be able to publish a chronicle in total ubiquity, witnessing the hottest nights without leaving my four-poster bed or my pom-pom nightcap, or at least the Petit Majestic where I’m spending this lazy Sunday, my mind nonetheless serene: tomorrow, we’ll be a crowd.
Traduction Emma Frigo
