Yesterday felt a lot more like the Cannes I remember from 2005, chiefly because I kept bumping into people I knew. Two such people were Jim Groom (director of Room 36) and Michael Booth (director of Diary of a Bad Lad). Both were seeking distribution for their films when I saw them at Cannes 2005; both are still working to get those same films out there. Jim has self-distributed theatrically, a massive challenge – and one not helped by his lab trashing his entire neg – but is now looking to sell Room 36 internationally. Michael has shot another feature since 2005, but his producer, Jon, has only just succeeded in securing a theatrical and DVD release for Bad Lad.
In the evening I attended a screening of Born of Hope, a Lord of the Rings fan film which I briefly helped out on, just before we started building the Dark Side pilot set. Although, of course, I was not surprised to bump into cast and crew members that I knew, I was surprised to find that an actor I know from a number of recent corporate videos was sitting behind me, and in fact is in Born of Hope, though I had previously failed to recognise him in it due to his long wig and lack of a French accent.

For obvious reasons, I can’t tell you much about the meetings that Carl and I had today. One of them was conducted whilst walking and weaving briskly through the crowds of Cannes. Another took place, perhaps more conventionally, on a patio.
Let me share with you some thoughts that others have shared with me today. I list them below, in no particular order, without passing judgement on their validity, simply to give you a flavour of the things you must consider (because if you don’t, others will consider them for you) when presenting a film project to the industry.
“Why is the lead a girl? It’s a boy’s film.”
“The poster looks like a seventies Czech TV series.”
“These kinds of films are a nightmare, because you’ve got multiple effects house all working on different shots.”
“If the book it’s based on sold less than five million copies, they’re not interested.”
“I haven’t bought this shampoo in years.”
After dinner, we attended a screening of “The Strange Case of Angelica”. It was a nice little story, about a photographer who falls in love with a dead girl he’s snapped, but when I tell you that the director is in his nineties, you will not be surprised to learn that the film moved more slowly than an Easyjet boarding queue.

Yesterday was far less of a trial than Tuesday. Since I had no meetings until the evening, I spent the morning on the surprisingly-deserted beach, before strolling leisurely along the coast to Cannes.
During the festival, the town is packed with industry professionals and film fans alike (and presumably some actual residents somewhere, although if I were them I’d be off like a shot come festival time). Traversing small distances, particularly around the Palais du Festivals, can take quite some time, what with the crowds and all the barriers that are up around the red carpet. I passed many people holding signs saying “Un billet pour Robin Hood S.V.P.” – wanting a ticket to the opening night premiere.
After picking up my badge I took a walk around the festival site to re-acquaint myself with the layout, before meeting Carl and his students for dinner. Over pizza I explained what I got up to on my last visit to Cannes (see the Soul Searcher blog for 2005 if you’re interested) and we discussed the merits of going freelance after university.
I risked the bus system to get back to the hotel, and it worked out well, although it was pretty packed because of a sudden shower.
Today we have our first proper meetings.
And if textual descriptions don’t float your boat, you can follow my Cannes video blog on YouTube, and the iTunes podcast feed too.

With my flight status showing as “scheduled” I began my journey from the Hairy Ford (that’s Hereford, for the casual reader) a little after eleven of the morning clock. The British rail network did me proud, delivering me to Gatwick in plenty of time for my 18:15 flight.
I was glad that I had decided to check-in online, as the queue was quite formidable. I joined the shorter bag drop queue, only to be told, upon reaching the front, that I had to wait ten more minutes because the computers would not process anything to do with my flight until it was less than two hours away. During those ten minutes I contemplated the baffling phenomenon that is airport queueing. You queue to check in; you queue at security; sometimes you queue to enter the mini departure lounge at the gate, and you queue to board the plane. What purpose do these queues serve? I appreciate that you need to be metal-detected, and your bags need to be x-rayed, and that the hilarious nostalgia fest of your passport photo needs to be compared to your miserable, queue-beleagured face. I can even tolerate, albeit begrudgingly, that it’s not practical to board every passenger in strict descending order of their seat number, so as to avoid some arsehole trying to stuff his battleship-sized carry-on into the overhead locker, delaying everyone else from sitting down. But I can’t see why they don’t just roll them all into one giant queue and have done with it – sort of a conveyor belt, a production line. If this conveyor belt led from the airport entrance to the gate, it would streamline the whole process beautifully.
But aside from the shorter queueing time , exactly what did I achieve by checking in online? I still had to queue to see a woman who checked my passport, asked me if I’d packed my own bags and put my suitcase on a conveyor belt to the underworld. How does this differ from checking in? I always thought that by checking in, you were confirming that you were going to fly – like form registration. “Oseman?” “Present, sir. Please don’t give my seat to someone else.” But Easyjet lets you check in up to 60 days prior to your flight. A lot can happen in 60 days. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but I’m guessing they at least had the foundations dug and a couple of burger vans frying up after 60.
Anyway, having seen my suitcase off to the nether regions of the airport organism, I joined the mercifully short queue for security. After being metal-detected, and having my keys and belt bombarded by the rays discovered by Malcolm X in his downtime from violently opposing racism, I soon found myself sat in front of the departure board. At 17:10, the message “boarding starts at 17:10” was replaced with the all-purpose legend “please wait”. At 18:15, I was still being silently and unnecessarily exhorted to wait. At 18:20, the text turned red and informed me that the flight was closing. simultaneously revealing the gate number for the first time. A brisk walk to the gate, and I found myself in another queue. A tannoy announced that passengers with inaccurately-named “Speedy Boarding” passes were now invited to come forward. Half an hour later, I was still in the queue, which was advancing at speeds most closely associated with the Eastbourne post office queue at 9:30 on pension day, in a universe where time runs six times more slowly than it does here. Reaching the head of this queue, and passing through the hallowed portal, I discovered not the Holy Grail, nor the shining face of the Lord himself, nor even a plane, which, frankly, was the least I was hoping for. Instead I espied a bus, filled with people who had been ahead of me in the queue. It was like I had joined my deceased loved ones in heaven, only to discover that heaven was a bit rubbish and, had they had the means, my loved ones would have sent me a postcard telling me not to bother hurrying, and to be honest, only to come on to heaven when I was quite sure that I’d exhausted everything I could do on earth and I was so desperate for a change of scenery that sticking my head in the gas oven was the only thing left to do.
Of course, the bus couldn’t go anywhere until everyone who was behind me in the queue had also passed through the golden portal and suffered the same crushing disappointment. When it had finally shuttled us to the plane, there was a final, brief queue to get on the aircraft, as if someone was reminding us that, even in the blessed afterlife, there is some arsehole with a carry-on that’s too big.
The plane finally parted company with the ground two hours after its scheduled time. Upon arriving in Nice, I called my hotel to inform them that I wouldn’t make it there before the latest check-in time of 11:30pm. Defying the odds, my baggage chose the same holiday destination as me, we were swiftly reunited, and the careful planning of my route to the nearest railway station paid off admirably. Having purchased a ticket, I took a pew on the dark and lonely platform, reflecting that, were I in a similar situation in the Hairy Ford, I would be in constant fear of yobs and muggers. Regrettably, the French railway system proved as piss-poor as the bus system I had been subjected to on my previous visit to Cannes. The scheduled time came and went (the only saving grace being the singular absence of queues), and the hour of midnight found me teaming up with three other stranded Brits, walking back to the airport and negotiating a fare with a tourist-hating taxi driver.
At 1:30am, my destination and I finally coincided on the time-space continuum, and a comfy bed called my name.
Today, being the day before the Film Market really kicks off, I have little to do until a dinner with Carl and his SAE students, so I believe I shall check out the beach. Au revoir.

The ash cloud appears to have settled over Spain, leaving France in the clear. My flight is scheduled to go as normal. All being well, I should be in Cannes La Bocca by the end of the day.

I’m due to fly out to Cannes in two days, but the volcanic ash is cutting a swathe across Europe again. Will I be able to go? Find out next time, in The Mildly Diverting Adventures of Neil.