DESPITE its reputation as a golden enclave of the regally and the absolutely fabulous, entertainment in Cannes can be surprisingly cheap and cheerful.
Cruising La Croiselle costs nothing and provides endless dreamfodder for the starstruck. So with my glamscan readied and my fame probe primed, I rubber neck outside the premieres, in the manner of a farmhand from the badlands of Idaho on a weekend coach tour of Beverly Hills.
It's more difficult to keep track of the stars than to actually spot them. Johnny Depp and Kate Moss slink up the red carpetted 39 steps to Le Palais, looking so ridiculously photogenic that even the most idyllic wedding catalogue might be ashamed to include them. They are in the company of Mr Iggy Pop, who looks far too tanned and healthy for such a notoriously degenerate rock `n' roll edgewalker.
Sunday night's 50th birthday bash at Le Palais provides particularly rich pickings on the directorial front, with a slew of former Pal me d'Or winners on site for the shindig. In fact, so many heroes of the clapperboard emerge into the early evening sunlight it becomes a little anticlimactic: look, there's Martin Scorcese, he's small; look, there's Bernardo Bertolucci, he's fat; look, there's David Lynch, he's weird.
Gorged on celebrity, full up on fame, I take my leave of Luvvie Heaven and head across the street to the bars and caffs of Hack Central. Here, the critics ponder over the premieres, united only by a long suffering expression that suggests spending a week and a half in the south of France watching films is a savage task to ask of any man. Theirs is a tough auld station.
