The Cameraman

Camera crews have a way of making you feel important, although in Cannes it seems Ferraris and De Loreans work pretty well, too. Tip: if you want attention, hire five guys in matching red t-shirts to follow you around with a camera. Suddenly everyone wants to know what’s going on, who’s being filmed and how they can get in on the action.

Unfortunately, I don’t quite have the budget to hire a posse. However, Jason’s friend Marcus happened to be making a documentary on the Cannes Film Festival and needed to get some footage from the aspiring actress point of view. We decided to do a poolside shoot on the rooftop of the Noga Hilton. I declined his offer to be filmed in a bikini – and not just because my skin is so white I could audition for a Storm Trooper. It was cold up there! So much for improving on London’s weather.

Marcus interviewed me for about two hours (“plenty of tape – let’s keep rolling!”). I’m not sure if that was a good sign, or whether it took him that long to get the needed 15-second sound byte out of me. After all that rambling, I really don’t know what I ended up saying, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention my enduring thoughts of stalking Harvey Weinstein in a misguided effort to replace Gwynnie as his new muse. Pretty sure.

Marcus and his sound guy Steve took Cher and me to dinner to celebrate the taping. I just didn’t feel as important anymore without the camera rolling. I think two hours of non-stop chatting exhausted me of anything interesting to say. We ordered dinner and I felt important again, making use at last of my high school French/Franglais. (So I thought “escalope” meant “scallops” – it’s an easy mistake.)

As Cher and I walked back from dinner, we were suddenly ambushed by three photographers demanding to take our picture. Wow – the paparazzi! I assumed they must have seen me being filmed at the Hilton. We obliged, showing off our well-rehearsed feet-to-the-side, shoulders-to-the-front, hand-on-hip S-curve poses. It helps fight back against those 10 extra pounds the camera adds.

“What publication is this for,” Cher asked the one who spoke the best English.

He chuckled and said “Come back tomorrow and pick them up for 10 Euros each,” then pointed to a large board with photos of all of his similarly-posed victims, and a price list: €9.95 for an 8 x 10, €7.95 for a 5 x 7.

Thank goodness we rehearsed the S-curve. If we’re going to be posers, we might as well be the best at it.