One can wonder whether it is acceptable to call stars by their first name and pretend to be their friend; in any case, one can also watch the tension build as the end approaches.
« Damn, I didn’t say goodbye to Catherine!”… …exclaims one lady as she leaves the Marcello Mio party. “I did talk to Christophe and Melvil though”. But has a diplomatic incident really been avoided? At the far end of the Bijou beach, the film crew is seated, whispering with a serious look on their faces: ”The lady didn’t say goodbye to Catherine.” Luchini – sorry, “Fabrice” – wanders alone along the water’s edge, casting melancholy-laden ricochets, his dark gaze stretched out to sea. On a more serious note: is loudly calling stars by their first names in order to impersonate their loved ones grounds for a one-way ticket to hell? I was talking about this recently with Greta, who thinks no less of it, and is in fact fed up with me ”pretending to talk to her in my column”.
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Leaving this latent clash behind, I’m off to relax my chakras at the club Vertigo, where the Eat the Night team are hosting a party that looks like a techno bacchanal in a suburban squat, organized by a specialist in the matter, Anna Dotigny, with a line-up to match, culminating in a set by Crystallmess – at least according to Bruno, who is kind enough to explain all this to the exclusive lover of baroque classical music and hard bop that he knows I am. Everyone’s on their feet, even the little Critikat boys, ready to go to war with all the critics who attacked The Substance, demanding a boxing match on the parking lot of the Pantiero. As the end of the festival approaches, blades are sharpening and tempers are flaring: I’m going to talk to Greta before things explode.
Traduction Emma Frigo
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