By Steve Cutts

If you’ve never actually been here and if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like, there is only one thing you need to understand about the Cannes Film Festival. No matter how mad you think it all is, when you get there, the truth is even madder. Cannes is a quintessentially French film festival where all the deals are done in English. For two weeks in May, every Taxi driver in town doubles his fairs and the seafront is given over to men with fake tans and dodgy facial hair.

 The British film industry is underrepresented here and I’m here to make my mark for Blighty. More than that, in the space of just 72 hours, I plan to sell our very own quirk some British comedy, Adieu Marx, armed only with a box of business cards and a pile of brightly coloured flyers.

 Not yet unpacked in our hotel room, I receive my first phone call.

 “Steve!” says a voice I never met before. ”I’m a close friend of your director and I’m a big time industry mogul. I’d really like to sleep on the floor of your hotel room in Cannes. I only need a rug or something and a maybe a spare pillow. I know Harvey Weinstein. And I don’t snore much. What do you think?” I think no and quickly hang up.

 Charis Orchard – my first time director from Paris - is just around the corner. Minutes later, we meet to discuss tactics and she apologizes for giving the guy my number. In truth, there is only one plan. My director and I will wander through the festival and mingle, looking for film distributors.

 Half a mile short of the Cannes Red Carpet, we begin to feel the vibes. This being France, the best of the drama is out on the streets.  All around the seafront, rows of neatly attired policemen direct the traffic with utter contempt. “The French,” my director explains, “live their lives as if on a stage.” And she’s right. Few, if any of the movies showing in Cannes will be as entertaining as the traffic police.

 Just short of the beach, we encounter a row of promotional Marquees. As usual, the American Pavilion is absolutely buzzing and I quickly find a seat on the terrace and check out the clientele. People who make movies aren’t as good looking as the people who star in them. Seconds later, a former hippy from  LA walks up to share his wisdom. “Are you trying to sell a movie?” I am “Well this is the place to be! I know film festivals and believe me, Cannes in the one to beat. Sundance? Don’t give me Sundance! Sundance is just a bunch of people ski-ing with attitude. Let me tell you, nothing beats Cannes!”

 Over to the right, a cute Canadian agrees with him.

 “Don’t you think this is great?” she asks me. “I mean this whole festival thing? It’s like speed dating on speed.” Having tried all three, she claimed to be a real authority on these things.

 A little further along, their British rivals are doing their best to make me feel like home. Our national Pavilion is small, damp and overcrowded. Everybody bar the admin staff went to Oxbridge. They don’t actually ask you for money on the door but when you get in there, people in authority who stand besides empty chairs and order you not to sit down on them.

 But Cannes isn’t all about small talk, it’s about selling stuff for money and we decide to hit the trading floor and sell something. The Marche Du Film, there are stalls from every corner in the world where brightly colored posters have threaten to blot out the Sun. People are polite and sometimes even exuberant but they only thing they want from you is money. We wander through the market and try to pitch our film. Five guys in an East London semi try to take over the world.  In the end they give up. The end. Would you like to buy it? A sales agent from Vienna watches the trailer and takes our card. Maybe we will get lucky.

 Another five yards along and we find ourselves in the foreign language section. In the foreign language section, most of the titles here have been translated by non-native English speakers. The Hong Kong based makers of “This head must die.” seemed strangely perplexed its lack of commercial success. 

  An adjacent American salesman mistakes me for a buyer and tries to draw me in. “Lesbian Killer Ninjas? What do you think to the poster, I mean tell me honestly?” I ask about the likely scale of his market and he reads my badge and smiles with real conviction. “You see Steven, 75% of the web pages in the world are pornography. The web is a device that delivers the porn to man and then, as a minor after thought, it does everything else. Think about it!” he nods at his own posters. “We’re always gonna be selling this stuff.” 

 Every form of film making life wanders these streets.  I wander past a woman that looks exactly like Julie Delpy and curse myself for not having a promotional flyer to hand over to her. Ten yards further along, I find myself forced to sit down and wonder whether a bunch of very exquisite roses might have been more appropriate. It is not yet midday. Charis drags me to my feet and we decide to go upmarket, wandering through a ludicrously grand hotel, where a round of drinks would cost more than our lighting budget. Moments later, Charis nudges me and says, “Did you see that?” I had not. I was looking the other way. “That was Harvey.” She hisses. ”Harvey always drinks in this place.” And that, I realize is the great thing about Mr Weinstein. Everybody in Cannes knows him by his first name.

 This place is out of our league and we know it. It’s time to retreat to the British Pavilion and see if Adieu Marx will gain any followers there. “Don’t worry about your Northern accent.” Says a dreadfully well spoken young man by the name of Jules. “’Not any more.” Britain, he explains, is no longer a divided society. “You know 20 years ago, a lot of the people in this tent would have been making run of the mill, middle class TV drama.  Nowadays everyone’s trying to make stuff about ordinary people. You know, kids out of Comprehensive schools and places where they’ve got people on the dole.  Obviously that kind of thing requires a terrific amount of research on our part, but we believe it’s worth it.” The floppy haired public school boy frowns. “’Politically things have changed too. It seems like only yesterday when we were always making stuff about asylum seekers. Now it’s gender politics. You know, women being exploited by men? They say that if you make a film like that and go to parties in Hampstead and talk about it a lot you can get laid really easily. Do you have any scripts like that?”

 I don’t. He seems disappointed. I hand out a few promotional flyers and mention our imminent premiere.

 Seconds later, I find myself accosted by a veteran American film maker with a strong conviction that he used to be a big shot. “I was the camera man to Charlton Heston! I mean, can you imagine that?” I can. “I’ve done everything there is to do in this business. I know Harvey Weinstein!” He talked for a while longer and eventually changed his tempo, tried silence and then and asked if he could stay at my place when he was visiting England. “I’m never any trouble.” He explained. “I’ll be OK on the floor in like a corner or something. I don’t even snore.”

  The day drags on. A string of LA based sales agents browse through our press pack material and ask if we’re trying to sell gay porn. “No.” explains Charis. “Tim just happens to have his shirt off in the poster.” The sales reps are disappointed. “For a moment there, I thought that might be your unique selling point.” Says one. “I mean, we don’t get a lot of Gay Porn in Cannes but if we did, I’m sure it would go down well.”

 Night falls on the festival and Charis, who knows the French and cares little for invites takes me down to the waterfront and bluffs our way into a mindboggling glamorous party where Leonardo De Caprio is expected to arrive shortly. The whole place is heaving with hot 24 year olds in brightly coloured skirts. It looks too good to be true and I soon discover that it is. An aging woman who claims to write for Cosmo puts me in the know. “A few years ago it was all about noses.” She points to her own, in case I miss it. “Now it’s cheek bones. If you’re gal and you want to get anywhere in this business and you don’t actually know how to write, produce, act or direct then you’ve got to have good cheek bones.”

 I look around me. She’s right. As explained earlier, prominent cheek bones are ubiquitous. I try to interest some of them in tomorrows premiere for my movie but with little success. They don’t actually know what either of the words in the title mean. What they do know about is implanted cheekbones. “You know in this business, high cheek bones can get you further than a cut glass accent on new bond street.” But the complementary champagne has been too much. It’s time to hit the sack and when the morning comes and I finally get over from my hangover, it’s almost time for the official screening of 

Adieu Marx.

  My director and I run around frantically handing out invites and trying to explain the plot.

 A portly wannabe from the Black Country, Matt accepts one eagerly. Matt, it emerges, would like to be the next Ken Loach.

 “How the hell did you manage to finish this?” he asks me, fingering our sales material in real awe. “Is it gay porn.” I confess that it is not. “It’s a nightmare trying to get funding for film.” He blurted. “Have you ever tried any of these British film grants?” I had. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve considered selling my body but I’ve been told I wouldn’t get anything for it.”

 “Who told you that?”

 “Harvey.”

 “I can’t understand why the government won’t give me any. When I make films, I’m going to make them like Ken Loach. None of this Spielberg crap.” And for a few seconds, his eyes misted over and he said. “Nobody will watch them.”

 It’s 8pm and the big moment has arrived. Incredibly, every one of 50 seats are occupied. Within 5 minutes of the lights going out, at least 10 people have walked out. “Buyers!” whispers my director. “They think they can sell it.” When I was writing the damned thing, I consciously saved the best gags for the end but in this moment, it hits me very hard that they should have come early. 80 minutes down the line, the lights come back on and there are still 30 people left. I decide to describe it as a triumph.

 Adieu Marx is a story about 5 young men having their left wing moment and we seem to have hit an unexpected button in the audience: nostalgia. “Yes,” says a tearful sales agent from my home land. “you know, I used to be a Marxist at University. Obviously I live in Chelsea now, but you know, I think it’s important not to forget that time.”

 You’re making me nostalgic. Maybe that’s our unique selling point. Memories of a passionate youth we were forced to leave behind.

Steve Cutts is the writer/producer of the feature film, Adieu Marx  www.adieumarx.com