We finally manage to escape the sponsored beaches in order to plunge into a chaos of pagan street masses, folk dancing and karaoke.
Half the stupid things I’ve done……were only for the pleasure of telling them », said the imperial Sacha Guitry, yet for my part I feel that some insubordination, as the end approaches, is missing from these nights – a feeling of chaos, a foolishness to tell other people, a mutiny against the well-ordered empire of cocktail beaches. At the close of the Week, the most remarkable event so far is the reversal of sweet and savory petits fours; I escape a panic attack thanks to news of the chaos outside, via Julien: « le Petit Maj’ is crazy, Damien Bonnard and Vicky Krieps are dancing with a cult of gorilla statue-worshipping bodybuilders! »
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Are the real party-goers, without invitations or lists, finally taking over? In an improbable middle school in Miles-Away-La Bocca, where you waltz in however you please, Miguel Gomes’ Grand Tour finally offers this Cannes a party like no other: there’s a pinball machine, a pool table, a chapel to atone for our sins, and a karaoke bar where Luc de Libé sings along to Mylène Farmer. The Inrocks Whatsapp group-chat doesn’t believe us (“Ribeton, you fibber « ), so Bruno and I are left alone to enjoy this popular bamboozle straight out of a Guillaume Brac film, free from the vulgar sponsored celebrations of the Croisette – at last all is chaos, and we can go home.
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