DEATH IN VENICE (FILM FESTIVAL)
A Little Background History:
The Venice Film Festival (established in 1932) is the oldest film festival in the world and one of the big 3 festivals, alongside the Cannes Film Festival and the Berlin International Film Festival.
1936: The Treaty of Friendship is signed between Italy and Germany.
1937: Jean Renoir anti-war masterpiece The Grand Illusion went on to enjoy a great commercial success which of course, pissed-off Hitler. The film was so banned in Germany and Italy.
1938: Venice wished to award an American film, but the distribution of prizes was changed last-minute (Germany’s orders). Instead, Leni Riefenstahl’s documentary about the 1936 Berlin Olympics and Lucciano Serra’s film shared the highest prize, “The Mussolini Cup”.
Both films were fascist propaganda which saw the American, French and British delegates resign before the prizes were even announced.
2018: How much has it changed today?
Arrival at Venice:
Orly Airport, Paris: I’m having coffee in industrial quantities – in order to psychologically prepare to my exploit. Next to my table: two middle-class Parisian ladies eating salads, discussing about home interiors with the seriousness of an unfurnished soul.
The airplane is approaching to land, and from the window, I can perfectly see the Venetian Lagoon in all its rocambolesque splendour.
How on earth did someone think to build a city around more than 100 islands?
Woody Allen said that 80% of success is showing up. So I did. Packed my most glamorous clothes along with my uncorrupted integrity to enter the twilight zone aka The Venice Film Festival.
In order to be admitted to the exclusive event, one must apply for an accreditation and provide the required documentation – to prove that one has something to do with the industry.
( The kind of people that make it are university lectures, film students, representatives of film associations and cultural institutions, photographers, press, actors, directors, production companies, talent agencies, distributors, composers, screenwriters, costume designers, law firms, engineers and the likes. And of course, competitors and the usually invited glitterati. )
The Festival takes place at Lido, an 11 km long sandbar in Venice. It takes me an hour by ferry to reach the island from the mainland – an attractive sacrifice I must make every day for 2 weeks.
Every time the ferry stops to pick up other passengers it’s a little tragedy. Seats are limited, nothing like human ridicule. An old extravagant lady walks up and down the ferry looking for a victim. She screams: “Sailor! Sailor! It’s indecent! There are no more seats available and too many cheap luggages left unsupervised!”. The sailor shows an empty seat to the lady, but she refuses it by saying: “I won’t seat next to someone wearing white gold. It’s outrageous! And I will write a letter to the major”.
That lady had perhaps forgotten to take her happy pills, I thought.
First Impressions:
Entering the pearly gates of film after collecting my accreditation: feels like the first day of school in a foreign country.
At the Info Point: asking questions is useless. No one seems to know anything. It’s custom to get some sort of answer in the lines of “Come on, are you serious? Everybody knows! Can’t you see I’m working?”.
Otherwise, there are policemen or simply security guards stationed in every entrance of the many buildings of the festival-zone. Try ask them a question if you happen to be a lovely young lady. They will flirt and blabber, ask your number or even a date and never answer your question. Pervs.
Ok, never mind. I will be in a better mood as soon as I will survive the vast crowd of mythological creatures in very high heels, salon-tanned skin, and freshly-redone tits exposed in see-through blouses – like two bull’s-eye eggs, breakfast of champions.
The Cannes Film Festival seems to be the Poor’s Festival in comparison. The truth is that the festival very much mirrors a society that in the past few decades has become the epitome of vanity parades painted with ignorance and vulgarity, excused by past glories.
There’s Something Fishy:
I’m on the morning ferry trying to catch a few early screenings. The trip went by quickly, thanks to yet another deranged middle-aged woman who interrupted my day-dreaming to tell me the story of her deadly boring life in about 45 minutes ride. Just what the world needs. Another divorcée in the market. I’m aware that not everyone can afford to see a psychoanalyst, but we have priests in Italy.
Queuing is a big part of film festivals, and it should be the perfect moment to discuss cinema with strangers, exchange business cards or mutually ignore each other. I don’t mind either. Even though I can’t help but listen to other people’s conversations – which makes me feel like some sort of detective in search of some kind of truth.
“Darling, I just can’t watch foreign films anymore. I have the feeling they’ve been translated by a monkey” / “I’m tired of watching serious films. I really need a Christmas rom-com.” / “Do you think anyone famous will be attending this screening?” / “Oh my god, have you seen how that lady over there is dressed?” / “So, for what are we queuing now?” / “Let’s make a selfie and leave.”
…
The quantity of cunts around me has completely disabled my capacity to “love thy neighbour”. I constantly ask myself what on earth are these people – who clearly are not interested in the infinite wonders of the 7thart – doing in a film festival.
Mystery Solved:
Another close encounter of the third kind made on the ferry to the Festival.
This time it’s M., a guy about my same age. We have a simple but enjoyable discussion about our favourite movies so I agree to have lunch with him in a nearby restaurant.
As we eat our delicious meals accompanied by even more delicious wine, I learn that he’s a 2nddeck officer of a cruise that ships all around the world. He makes me dream a little as he tells me about his adventurous life on the 7 seas.
M. explains to me that he’s sailing away most of the time. He has 4 months off every year – so he likes to spend most of his free time going to top seasonal events. He has now been attending the Venice Film Festival for years.
On the other hand, I tell him that it’s my first time at the festival, that I’m just a small theatre actress and that I’m there to write reviews for a film magazine. I then ask him how did he get an accreditation for the festival even if he’s not in the business.
Well, well, well… (I should wear a cowboy hat, chewing a flower on the corner of my mouth while I say this).
There’s an accreditation called “Promotional” which is separately sold in affiliated websites. You don’t need to have anything to do with cinema in order to buy it.
The pass has the price of 2000 Euros: it lasts the all duration of the festival, it includes free screenings dedicated to the homonym pass holders, as well as an entry to all press conferences and the premieres of the festival (which are strictly open by invitation only, or the “Money can buy it all” pass holders, of course), and they’ll so be able to walk down the red carpet every evening (a real boost of confidence, doctor’s orders I guess).
I’m in utter SHOCK.
I was reluctant enough to the idea that cinema tickets are sold separately to the public (which includes a very few people that are actually interested to watch the films in competition), but I could not bear the idea of those who walk around the festival pretending to be celebrities for a hand-full of money.
That’s fucking depressing.
Reality Check:
In the next few days, I was constantly tired and increasingly misanthropic. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the Venetian lagoon and its rococo architecture, contrasted by the opulence of the festival – its anger for money and prestige, the screaming fans camping outside the red carpet, and the endless queues of Iphones, obese photographers, pseudo-intellectuals and walking marshmallows.
What is this? A tourist attraction? A vanity fair?
It was clear by now, that most of the people hanging around were rich morons in crocodile leather shoes. Why? An urgent urge to renew their Facebook image?
Even the few “professionals” I met, didn’t seem to be as professional. Instant glory, money, glamour, nepotism. An Italian affair.
Even the films were a disappointment. There were a few gems of course – which saw the light of the day unrecognized. Otherwise, it was compelling for me to review them without completely trashing them.
It seems to me as if any film evolving around a character belonging to a minority is considered to be subversive nowadays. No matter how dull the story is, how boring the dialogues are, how inexistent is the music or how plain is the photography.
It’s rightful and respectable to fight for injustices, but how fast are those injustices being exploited?
I wonder how many fans I would have on Instagram if I was a gay, black Muslim woman.
Hotel Excelsior:
There should be the sound of gipsy violins at the funeral of cinema, I think, while I’m walking towards the piano-bar.
I’m at Hotel Excelsior. This sumptuous hotel overlooking the Adriatic Sea is home of the stars and host of press conferences, panel discussions, distributors/producers meetings, and occasional award ceremonies.
I order a Johnnie Walker on the rocks because that’s the perfect intro for a movie. Close-up of a glass with whiskey being poured into it before the camera zooms out to a wider shot revealing a desperate girl in a 60s dress, me.
It’s, of course, impossible to sit quietly for a while, without being disturbed by horny bald men.
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. The favourite word of the festival was with no doubt “feminism”. Yet another exploited fast-food term.
Take feminism into consideration. Boris Yellnikoff (Whatever Works, 2009 – Woody Allen) shares an absolute truth with us: “The basic teachings of Jesus are quite wonderful. So, by the way, is the original intention of Karl Marx. Okay? Hey, what could be bad? Everybody should share equally. Democracy. Government by people. All great ideas. These are all great ideas, but they all suffer from one fatal flaw. Which is that they’re all based on the fallacious notion that people are fundamentally decent.”
I attended an award ceremony in which the all-female jury was giving prices to women who portrayed women from a female – perspective. What does that mean? I have no idea. I recognized a few faces – Tv stars of trashy soap operas. Stuff my grandma adores. I still don’t understand what has this anything to do with feminism.
Let’s not go there. So where should I turn my head to? To yet another improvised award ceremony? To the fact that even the winners don’t know what to say because they have no idea why are they being awarded in the first place? Or the countless anorexic actresses walking down the lobby? Or the fact that they’re constantly persecuted for a selfie?
What about CINEMA?
I consider this article as the one and only “selfie” I took at the Venice Film Festival 2018.
How do I look?
