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A prevailing belief is that there has been some conspiracy on Wall Street to bilk people out of their money. If there was a conspiracy, it was an extremely broad, disorganized, decentralized, and, in some measure, inadvertent one. In other words, there was no conspiracy, unless that’s what you call the establishment of an oligarchy, over several generations and with the assistance of a blinkered populace.
The Death of Kings
Nick Paumgarten
New Yorker, 18 May 2009

Reading the major story in this week’s New Yorker was a sobering exercise on the flight from Chicago to Frankfurt. What exactly am I doing on a plane to Cannes in the midst of this economic ebbtide? Is there a bit of self delusion in this act?

Exactly one year ago, from the day I am on this flight, we were wrapping the shoot on Arc of a Bird. It had taken five days and gone surprisingly well – no tortuous 16 hours days as some had feared. And – at that time – no one was talking about banks melting like gelato dropped on the sidewalk of the Cote d’Azur, the number of foreclosures hadn’t reached critical mass in the collective social consciousness.

In some way, the trip I’m making is based on the work done a year ago… but I’m also telling myself this as a bit of self-delusion too.

On the connecting flight from Frankfurt from to Nice, I’m seated beside a man who has a grin from ear-to-ear. When he arrives at the row, he looks me straight in the face as if to say: “Don’t you recognize me?” then takes his seat, dons his iPod earphones and looks out the window. (Several times throughout the flight he will exit the aisle, apologizing with that broad grin and stopping by some friends two rows back.)

Fight attendants come down the aisle and ask everyone to turn off their electronic devices and my row companion complies. But as we begin to taxi down the runway, he begins singing.

Not loud, operatic singing, not even guy-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-on-headphones singing (even those he is NOT on headphones now) – just a kind of heartfelt memory of a tune he doesn’t want to lose. I can’t place the language.

Arriving in Nice, I get my first glimpse of my first sign of excess…. The moment the doors to customs open and I wheel my suitcase out, I’m confronted by more handheld signs than I can recall. Here at the aeronautic nexus of Cannes, the drivers have arrived for the celebrities…. “Your sedan awaits, monsieur.” The global economic crisis is outside somewhere but we’re moving in air-conditioned vehicles to the festivities. (Me too.)

And as I pause to take it all in… my grinning flight companion crosses in front of me and walks up to the young woman holding the sign: Bahman Ghobadi.

You’ve guessed the punchline to this vignette but I’ll tell you anyway: Bahman Ghobadi is the world famous (to everyone but me) director whose film “No One Knows About The Persian Cats” is in the major festival competition. The film centers around the underground music scene in Teheran. No wonder he was listening constantly to music and singing a bit too.

I’m sure I could have asked SOME question of my row companion, I think, as I turn and head to the bus stop. (For anyone doing this in the future, it’s the 200 Bus, not the 99 Bus – that’s another story.)

So I arrive in Juan des Pins, 12 kilometers (they tell me, but I’m thinkin’ further) outside Cannes. The Producer has found a nice hotel for an incredible rate, so I have no problem paying the 1 Euro bus fare to take me down there after a quick shower.

My quick notes as I stumble my way around the complex of the Croisette….

1. Why doesn’t someone come up with a guidebook to this loopy system? Does it change every year so it’s impossible to keep up?

2. You may have a badge – but you probably don’t have THE badge to get through THAT door. I am rebuffed at a half dozen entrances, before I can even find the right one to get to my badge. And after you get to your badge? Bienvenue, monsier!

3. I don’t think that is a topless beach; I just think the 80-year old woman laying out in the sun has stopped caring what anyone thinks.

4. And there above the Croisette looms the penthouse suite of The Weinstein Company. You can tell coz they have a big sign that says: The Weinstein Company. (Isn’t it cooler if you have a penthouse and DON’T advertise it?)

5. Between the hours of 5 and 6 o’clock you notice a definite up-tick in tuxedos. Contrary to all the talk of fine dress, it is a phenomenon that happens when Dracula awakes – the cummerbund, the bowtie – Ah, night has fallen and I’m realizing I haven’t been to bed in almost two days.