Cannes, day 0

Everyone is on high alert. Militias of glittering poodles amble the streets methodically, letting out threatening grunts. Movie stars hug the walls. An atmosphere of torpor, almost of imminent dystopia electrifies a Croisette that is trembling with intoxicating and revolutionary rumors – MeToo is everywhere, alongside the anger of the less secure (represented by the collective Sous les écrans la dèche), whereas in Paris the gates of the CNC* are shaking under the assault of the pitchforks. The storm rumbles and, according to Météo-France, it should break on Thursday, in perfect timing for the new Coppola film, to which the image of a Croisette showered with lightning and inundated by a flood resembling that of the Last Judgment should offer a dreamy yet apocalyptic mirror.

On that day, I will have chosen my side: that of the poodles who wait only for a sign from Messi, Palm Dog of the 2023 edition with Anatomie d’une chute – and back on the Croisette this year under the guise of a pretend coverage by France Télévisions – to start establishing the new order, akin to a Planet of the mutts. The night shall be clammy and dangerous, with rains of blood on the red carpet.

Traduction Emma Frigo
*National Center for Cinematography