not in our stars, but in ourselves
It’s here! It’s here! The Cannes Film Festival is here! This means that I’ve spent most of the day looking at new pictures of the jury as they stand around awkwardly while paparazzi photographers yell “MEESTAIR SPIELBAIRG! NICOLE! NICOLE! OVAIR EER PLEEZ!” (as seen here).
If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll be able to guess at my favorite juror. No surprise, he is absolutely the best dressed man in town. Better dressed than some of the ladies, too. As my friend Karen says: “Perfect trouser break. Perfect trouser fit. Look at the other fellas’ pants. Then look at Mr. Waltz’s.” Mmm hmm. Christoph Waltz is the European version of the Old Spice guy – “hello, ladies. look at your man. now back to me. now back at your man. now back to me. sadly, he isn’t me,” etc. – and he just looks flawless. Maybe he has an unfair advantage, since his wife is a costume designer, but still. Those other men on the jury are all rich as Croesus. They could have afforded a tailor.
Anyway, the point of Cannes is not my unhealthy obsession with a fiftysomething Austrian. The point is the press hoopla – I mean, the films. And I do believe that they’re all settling in now to watch the opener, The Great Gatsby. You all know how unexcited I am about this one, and I feel bad for Waltz especially: since Nicole Kidman is a fellow juror, and since Leonardo Di Caprio was a co-star, he’ll probably have to try to find something nice to say about that piece of nonsense so as not to insult either of the two-time Baz Luhrmann collaborators. Poor kid.
All the same, I look forward to lots more pictures of Christoph outshining everyone else, and I guess I look forward to hearing about the films as well.