Heading into a frenetic festival, searching for meaning
by Eric Kohn
CANNES, France -- The strikingly abnormal image of a blindfolded woman set against a black background adorning the poster for the 61st Cannes Film Festival was taken from a photograph by David Lynch. Ever the eccentric American artist, Lynch's career offers a distinct frame for understanding this monumental gathering of the film industry's greatest powers.
Year after year — since its inception in 1939, really, when moving picture pioneer Louis Lumiere headed the jury — Cannes has embodied the notion of cinema as a monumental, prestigious form of artistic expression. Over time, however, many regulars have started to feel that the festival has devolved into a oversized European fashion statement. It's a condition, one might argue, that has struck Lynch's visibility; his work relegated to art houses and the libraries of film enthusiasts in the United States, the man is practically a rock star in the Gallic world, constantly scrutinized for his creative abilities. The jury's still out on whether this qualifies as genuine aesthetic appreciation or co-option of art for a mainstream pop agenda. Or does it not make a difference?
This is the core conundrum I've been contemplating as we head into a week filled with red carpet waltzes outside the Lumiere Theater here in the south of France, attempting to make sense of a program that puts estbali independently minded filmmakers, ranging from Nuri Bilge Ceylon to Steven Soderbergh, alongside the likes of Steven Spielberg. Which is why, from the Stream perspective, Cannes sort of feels like the epic battleground from some Tolkien fantasy — strange and otherworldly.
Making an appearance recently at the Tribeca Film Festival in April, director Mike Figgis declared that Cannes had become "the Oscars in French," which was not meant as a compliment, but at least that implies a certain celebratory spirit. Others issue a far more denigrating prognosis: That the festival, along with its accompanying marketplace, champions commerce over singular vision. In a world where Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Crystal Skulls gets put high atop a pedestal, you have to squint to find the little guys.
Don't get me wrong: Cannes is by no means an unpleasant or entirely meretricious environment. Quite the contrary: It's a gorgeous, sweeping vista brought to life by the French Riviera's cool ocean breeze, set to the energizing rhythm of the movie business. In Roger Ebert's recently reissued Two Weeks in the Midday Sun: A Cannes Notebook, first published in 1987, the film critic considers the festival as a realm guided by ritual: The stars nab the spotlight while distributors haggle for their best prospects and breakout independent filmmakers fight to gain notice. Together, they aggressively huddle for space in the hulking shadow of the Palais des Festival. The chaos is kinda brilliant.
All of which is to say that film, an art form barely into the second century of its existence, really gets people going. Make no mistake: The festival provides a definite playground for aficionados of the form, with programs such as the Short Film Corner and Cinefondation hosting plenty of total unknowns, while the Directors' Fortnight sidebar, currently celebrating its fortieth year, has championed worldly filmmakers like Mira Nair, Jafar Panahi, and hundreds of other provocative minds. Optimists believe that great artists can thrive in any conditions, and most of us would like to support that sunny thesis. Stream's presence at Cannes is our attempt to find a middle ground, or at least a sanctuary, for the truly independent filmmaker in an environment that increasingly skews in the opposite direction. Cannes never was the end-all and be-all for independent filmmakers, but it provides opportunities for the lucky few, and remains very much an event worth paying attention to — no matter what area of filmmaking moves you.