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To fake tan or not to fake tan? That's the burning question on Leanne Smith's mind this week as Cannes-bound film folks lose their luggage on the EasyCrate flight to Nice...
The closest I've ever been to Cannes is Marseilles on an EasyCrate hen-weekend. Still, it's close enough to know the dos and don'ts. The way I see it, Cannes is like the Glasgow Fair Fortnight in Palma because it's just about as expensive and the same rules apply.
First, don't agonise over what to wear. A quick trip to Primark, New Look or Top Man will sort you out for 50 quid or less. The logic of this being, a) your luggage will probably get lost and b) someone will always be better dressed than you anyway - with the possible exception of Harvey Weinstein and Ken Loach. Besides, it's not like you've got a suite at the Majestic or the Cap, so why worry? Naff logo T-shirts, like the one I saw recently that said - Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don't want to hear your life story. Show us your tits - just might qualify as a talking point and a surefire way to a deal. Less is more - if you must burn your credit card any further, do it on the best shades, the best belt, the best gadget you can find.
Second, you'll spend a lot of time talking to idiots who are in the same place as you - ie. not getting a film made. This is a rough equivalent of trying to get a lumber (or, attracting a sexual partner for those viewers not in Scotland) Again - no problem! If you fancy them, then hang out - ask yourself, where else am I going? And at least that way you can split the bar bill. This only works if you're on Kir Royales and they're on water. Even better, hone in on the German exhibitor there on company expenses, laugh at his jokes - et voila - a friend for life and a free night out. Just make sure you're in one of the better hotels, so you can grab a meeting from that 'important person'.
Three - shoes. For guys, any old loafers/trainers will do. For girls it's a little more tricksy, especially if you're a development exec who spends June to the following May on your fat arse reading bad scripts and eating too many Pret sandwiches, veggie crisps on the side, plus the brownie. That gym membership you took out on January 12th got lost, didn't it? If so, then heels it has to be, but if you can't afford Jimmy Choos go for wedges - but then again, you've probably got ten pairs of Manolos already, you bitch. Like you need my advice.
Four - party invites. Simple. Call the local catering companies and pretend you're a client for say, Soho House in Cannes. Better still, get a brainless posh girlfriend to do it because she'll get the dates mixed up and that way you'll find out who's doing the catering for the most exclusive soirees. That way you get the skinny on who's hosting what party when. All you do is turn up, saying you're there to oversee the arrangements. Or at a push, claim you lost a member of staff and blag your way in. Same tactic works for security if you're a guy.
Fifth on the list - moby ettiquette - just be sure you've got yours glued to your ear at all times, lest people think you don't know anybody or you've got nothing to talk about. Remember, these days people think it's an act of devotion if you switch a phone off in their presence, as if they and only they can command your attention. A cheap trick, but deeply flattering. Risky if you're really there on biz though and that vital call gets your voice mail. Same goes for texts.
Six, and crucially - if you actually have a script worth shopping, do a blind drop round all the best hotels, making sure you have a novel pitch. I'm told an oven glove in a Jiffy bag works, with a message to say your script's too hot to handle.
Last, the vexing question - do I Fake Bake or not? There's two schools of thought on this. If you're paler than milk then some folk might see it as a sign of long nights locked in an edit suite and think you're productive. But if you turn up with a glowing tan they might think, well, here's a real player because you might just pass for a rich bastard who can afford a fortnight in Bermuda after the skiing holiday in Aspen. The jury's out. I say - go boldly tan.
So if you're Cannes-bound this weekend - enjoy. But don't expect to come back with anything more than a bunch of business cards of companies that will fold in six months and, if you're unlucky, a dose of something unpleasant after a quick and meaningless shag with Luiz or Sophie. Or both. Whatever floats your yacht...
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