I Go to the Cannes Festival Every Year. It’s Not Nearly as Glamorous as You Think

As an entertainment journalist, I've covered the Cannes Film Festival every year for almost a decade.

Every year, I arrive in the same iconic beach town, ready to cover the most well-known film festival in the world–like I’ve done every time over the last seven festivals. And every year I have nothing but a vague idea of what the two-week event will look like. There will be premieres, that much is certain. Celebrities will descend upon the red carpet. There will probably be invites to events–but I won’t know for sure until a few hours prior to them. My number one assignment is just to be gown-clad and ready when duty calls.

Welcome to the Cannes Film Festival. 

Glamour on the Outside, Stress on the Inside

Nothing about the festival appears stressful from the outside. Cannes itself oozes glamour. Billionaire-owned yachts are docked all around the harbor. The Croisette, a palm-lined beach boulevard that looks out on the French Riviera, is the epitome of luxury where grand hotels and sexy beach clubs host A-list actors, celebrity chefs, and the who’s who of fashion, finance, and filmmaking. At the post-premiere parties, private concerts by Ricky Martin, Tom Jones, and Christina Aguilera are so commonplace that I forget when and where they took place. (Except when Mariah Carey interrupted a performance to get her hair and make-up touched up on stage between songs, while wagging her finger at the audience, warning them not to document her “bad side.” That I never forget.) 

As a reporter working the festival, these exclusive parties are not quite so chill. While I also get to share rarefied air with Kylian Mbappé and Kendall Jenner, the pressure of trying to spot Leonardo DiCaprio at the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, like a rare bird lost inside a crowded terrarium, takes away from the overall enjoyment. Guests at the party may be sipping Moët and Chandon like it’s going out of style, but my clock will always strike midnight and I’ll have to go home–or sometimes just under an awning in the street–and file the night’s observations ahead of my deadline.

But yes, I, too, get to ascend those majestic stairs to the Lumiere theater–as long as I make sure I arrive at the right time, stand in the right line (the non-celebrity one), and properly follow the etiquette of the festival, which includes absolutely no selfies on the red carpet unless my desire is to be tackled by security. Thank heavens, though, for the banishment of the “heels-only” rule, which now allows women to wear flats on the red carpet. Hell hath no fury like a woman with sore feet.

Once inside the theatre, the gig is to describe the atmosphere–the elation, shock, and occasional dismay of an audience that truly has seen it all–and use a stopwatch to time the post-premiere applause. A four-minute standing ovation is merely a polite reception, while a whopping 11 minutes of cheering signifies a hit. It may be an inexact science at best (do you count the applause during the credits or not? Should one adjust for inflation when a big cast gets individual claps?), but it’s turned out to be a pretty good marker for success. And it’s always amusing to count how many people leave during a David Cronenberg film.

Do I Get to Stay in Glamorous Accommodations? Not Really

The five-star hotels that line the Croisette are some of the most breathtaking properties on the Riviera. While I can locate the bars and the bathrooms in nearly all of them, I have never spent the night on the boulevard–unless you accept my simple abode on a technicality. If you follow the Croisette all the way to the end, that’s where you’ll find me. I’m in an Airbnb in the charmingly named Palm Beach, a peninsula that juts out into the Mediterranean, a mere 30-minute walk from the Palais des Festivals.

At the end of the road is the newly opened Palm Beach Casino, a historical compound that has hosted both Jeff Bezos and John F. Kennedy for dinner and drinks (not on the same night, unless you know something about billionaire spending I don’t). The mostly residential Palm Beach boasts long stretches of sandy beach that are never as crowded as the patches of sand open to the public on the edges of the Croisette-proper.

It all feels as local as Cannes gets with topless, cigarette-smoking sun worshippers and nightly pétanque players in the parks. Should you want a true escape from the festival madness, this is it. Let’s just keep it our secret, ok?

Is the Food Any Good?

The Martinez Hotel prides itself on having Michelin-star chef Jean Imbert, who this year expands his repertoire from the hotel’s beach club to the now re-opened La Palme d’Or, the restaurant likely to host the annual dinner for the Cannes Film Festival jury. Pop ups are the cool thing, like an off-shoot of filmmaker David Lynch’s Parisian club Silencio, with its bespoke cocktails; or, in past years, the Lou Lou Restaurant on the rooftop of the JW Marriott Hotel, where I once watched Anne Hathaway celebrate her premiere with a little boogie, while guests enjoyed fresh pasta swirled inside a giant cheese wheel. 

This is not how most reporters–me included–normally get their daily sustenance. While I wouldn’t be surprised if most of our calories came from hors d’oeuvres served at industry cocktail parties, the way to engage in the compulsory Cannes carb loading is to pick a restaurant–any restaurant–on pedestrian bistro row Rue Hoche and its surrounding streets. Every menu, almost without exception, contains a variation of pizza, pasta, and risotto–and little else.

Since the rosé always flows liberally, and the food, for the most part, meets the same standards wherever you eat, you can put your Yelp away. I just find a table and have a fun night surrounded by my professional colleagues, where we recount the madness and gossip of our festival experiences. If you’re lucky dinner will even be marked by the often street-roaming Mrs. Doubtfire climbing into your lap. 

Is There Anything Else to Do During the Festival?

When working the festival, the main activity for a fortnight is logging miles and movies. Between screenings, ticket pick-ups, events, and interviews, it’s easy to clock eight miles a day over a remarkably small surface area. Actually sitting down for a meal feels like a real luxury, as does a quick dip in an ocean–which sits there, cool and glistening, taunting me all day. 

Usually, I lack the energy to do anything not work-related, but one ambitious year I took the train to nearby Saint-Paul de Vence, where, perched on a hill, is Fondation Maeght. The museum offers a one-of-a-kind permanent collection of works by Miro, Chagall, Giacometti, and Braque, in a beautiful building by architect Josep Lluís Sert. The trek may feel arduous but it’s 100% worth it when you take in the view of the trees and the ocean from the sculpture garden. 

More often than not, the end of my two-week stint is marked by a trip to nearby Île Sainte-Marguerite. A once-an-hour ferry takes you to the island where dozens of little coves offer privacy for a very quiet day of sunbathing. The boat reminds you that you’re by no means alone, but if you want to feel like you are, there’s enough room for almost everyone to fly solo on Sainte-Marguerite. For a touch of history, visit the fortress where the Man in the Iron Mask was held prisoner (maybe this is where Leo was hiding all along…). After a full day of looking back at Cannes and its chaos from a safe distance it’s not so unusual for me to think, “Huh, that was kind of fun. I should do this again next year.”