Photo essay: Cannes 2012

As my first Festival de Cannes draws to a close, I am struck pretty much dumb by the experience. Suffice it to say that when Wayne Koestenbaum puts out a second edition of his recent book Humiliation, my ten days here deserve at least a mention, and possibly a chapter. 

To minimize the risk of further damage to my career, I will let these pictures tell their own deceptive tale of my Cannes debut. 

In Cannes, you can never be too rich, too thin, too famous, or too tan.

Toast of the American Pavilion, in absentia

Hometown pride I: Cannes Peaches! And Bobby Barber

Hometown pride II: Kevin Clarke's double spotted in the Indian aisle of the Marché

credits

I love the Brazilian people! (Part I)

I love the Brazilian people! (Part II)

Without Marilyn, this place would just be a punk ass fishing village with a casino.

Best-in-class paparazzo: Jan-Michael Losada

I love the Brazilian people! (Part III) - also Norwegians and Mutton Chops. And Jim. And the occasional Scottish pinhead.

I slipped in the rain and banged up this finger 

The lovely and talented Alexandria Sage (Lowell '86), covering the festival for Reuters

Our room with a view, a safe distance from the festival

The horrors of socialized medicine include architecture so good people are dying to get into the hospital.

Cannes dieting tip #1: Eat up the attention, then pick at your dinner.

Jim and I needed subtitles to understand the bizarre language spoken by the Englishman & the Scot. 

Moments later, we shouted at ourselves "NO PICTURES! NO PICTURES!" and put our hands in front of our iPhones. Then Marc got carried away and gave himself a shiner.

42IF I survive Cannes

Palme d'Or for Best Footwear

We had filmmakers from every continent, and conjoined twins.

Photo credit: Maxim Jago Sam Hobbins (my edits)

Only Cindy Sherman understands (photo credit: Jim Kenney)

Unlike most celebrities, Jane really listens.