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Reflections of Cannes: Surviving the paparazzi mosh pit

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For the opening night of the Cannes Film Festival, Henri Behar granted my request to experience the red carpet paparazzi pit.  Henri walked me over to area before the red carpet circus began, making sure both the photographers and security guards knew who I was.  He then positioned me in front of everyone so that I had the best view.  Once Henri walked away, the photographers beside me offered their best smirks and looks of derision, and I simply smiled back.

I had no idea why I wanted this particular experience.  I am sure Henri thought the same, as he asked several times if I really wanted to do this.  After relenting, he simply advised me to wear something nice, as photographers at Cannes wore tuxedos.  Instead of opting to wear red carpet finery, I chose to wear the nice clothes – really, sort of normal business wear with ultra high heels that I usually wore to the nearby French casino.

The film festival takes place at the The Palais des Festivals de Cannes, a large glass and concrete structure with a large video screen at its center, a giant plaza out front and a walkway that leads to the beautiful Mediterranean at the building’s rear.  A red carpet is rolled from the large set of concrete stairs in front of the theater down to the edges of the sidewalk curb.  In the evening, this otherwise peaceful, everyday setting turns chaotic.   The cast, some crew and guests of the evening’s feature film walk the red carpet in front of a sea of cheering onlookers that either spill onto the street or hang from buildings, while the loud voice of an emcee blares across the Palais with the arrival of the celebrities.  The photographers are placed adjacent to the red carpet in a roped off area so they do not spill into the area reserved for the people who would attend the evening screening.

Before the noted celebrities made their grand entrance, there was a long period of standing in the paparazzi pit.  I began to shift my weight between my feet while my toes began to search from emancipating through the straps of my open-toed shoes.  The men around me were making their last minute camera checks, replacing film or making last minute decisions on equipment.  There were some who would politely tap me on the shoulder and ask what I was doing there, especially since my little point-and-shoot camera was no match for their professional grade Nikons.  I simply replied, “…to take pictures..,” which seemed like a perfectly indisputable thing to say at the time.

There is always calm before chaos, when people are still somewhat free to be friendly and charming.  There was enough camaraderie to go around, and I began to feel comfortable in my little situation.

Once the celebrities began to trickle in, arriving from their one-block limousine ride from a fancy nearby hotel onto the red carpet, they would usually head straight for the paparazzi pit.  Some rushed their walk as if there was an emergency, while others pranced along the carpet as if they were show ponies.  Most, however, did the gentle, elegant glide along the carpet, pausing in front of the paparazzi pit to stand for photographs.  Being in the center of all this activity from the pit, I could hear the whirring of turning film and the calls from photographers who would shout names and offer compliments in various languages.  The celebrities would pose, give their best practiced smiles before walking away to disappear into a crowd of other famous and not-so-famous people.

This went on for a bit, and I was getting a bit bored.  This is the sort of thing that one sees on an entertainment TV, only without the comforts of a couch, snacks and a remote to change the channel.  I have never been attracted to watching red carpet affairs on television, and the live experience seemed to be nothing more than mind-numbing photos  Or so I thought.

Once the big celebrities began to flow through, however, the gentlemen around me began to bump their cameras into my back and shoulder, while I felt lenses slam onto my head.  They began to try to push me around, jockeying for a better position.  Perhaps they thought I was small and expendable.  None of them knew, however, that I was a punk.

There was a virtual war brewing in the paparazzi area, and while they were used to wrestling their way through mayhem to get their photos, I wanted no part of their shenanigans.  As they elbowed, I began to elbow back.  When they kicked me, I returned the favor, sometimes by lifting my feet and giving it all with my heels.  Toe stepping was always returned in kind as I ground my heels into their patent leather shoes.  I used every old and time honored method of sending straying mosh pit dancers back into their area on this particular set of paparazzi, especially when the bigger stars wandered into our path.

None of us ever exchanged words, and I heard no errant “merdes” thrown in my direction.  I did see a few wide eyed men looking at me as I smiled back, never once letting myself be caught off guard so that I might accidentally fall to the floor to meet a trampling.  There was a point, however, when I began to feel a bit bad.  While these professional photographers had their expensive cameras around their necks, shooting away for photographs essential to their jobs, I was basically there for my own amusement.  More importantly, I had not bothered to take one photo.

I began to pull the photographers in the rear to the front, creating absolute chaos in the pit.  I was pushed around like a pinball, held in balance by some very polite photographers in the back who were only too thankful that I was shaking the pit of vipers around so that they could move forward.  Once I finally stood in the back of the back, one of the poor security guards grabbed my arm in hopes that he would move me back to the front again. Instead, I simply said that I was ready to go back to my hotel. This was not really possible, as there were far too many people blocking my way.  Instead, I waited for the cameras to calm down as the celebrities disappeared into the Palais.

Henri managed to find me and asked how I enjoyed the experience.  Enjoy, however, would not have been the descriptive word I would have used.

(c)2014 Slow Suburban Death.  All rights reserved

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