Most of us will never be able to afford to go there. Even if we could, the average film fan could never get tickets to any of the screenings. They’re reserved for industry insiders. So why are so many of us fascinated with the Cannes Film Festival? An event we’ve never been too. And probably never will.

The most obvious answer lies in the exclusivity itself. Don’t we always want to belong to the country club that wouldn’t have us as a member? Date the person everyone else wants? How many of us have stood in line for a humiliating hour to get into the nightclub of the moment?

In fact, I might even go so far as to argue that many of us don’t even know which films have been selected for screening. What fascinates us are not the films themselves, but the spectacle of Cannes. All that accompanies those twelve days in May on the Côte d’Azur.

We imagine it’s 1953, and we’re photographing a young Brigitte Bardot posing in a bikini (shocking in the early fifties) on the sand in front of the Carlton Hotel. Or we imagine we’re lunching with Penelope Cruz wearing Chanel couture at the Miramar. Or we imagine it’s 1970, and we’re holding Ottavia Piccolo’s elbow as she ascends the red-carpeted stairs up to the Palais des Festivals. Later, we’ll swing over to Cap d’Antibes and sip Cristal until dawn at the Hôtel du Cap listening to Edith Piaf sing La Vie en Rose (live).

The next day, we’ll buy a diamond necklace at Cartier, try on bathing suits at nearby Juan-les-Pins, and sun on a yacht just off the coast of the Croisette. Who’s that sunning on the next yacht? Could it be Bergman? Is he smoking cigars with, with Altman? Could be. And the biggest yacht? Why that’s Mouna Ayoub’s Phocea, had lunch there yesterday.

I’m in Dior shades and the paparazzi, in black tie, are elbowing each other out of the way to take my picture. Now I’m watching the sunset from my suite on the top floor of the Martinez. Later, I’m getting a massage and facial at the Givenchy Spa. Then I’ll pick up a little something at the Yves Saint Laurent boutique to wear to dinner at Le Moulin de Mougins. Chef Roger Verge is preparing the cuisine tonight.

Darling, that bauble you’re wearing from Chopard is just divine. Did you know they redesigned the Palme d’Or this year? It’s an 18k palm leaf mounted on a crystal base. Divine, darling. Just divine.

Yes, yes, darling. I have the all-access white pass. Why Gilles Jacobs gave it to me, darling. Oh, you don’t have on. I’m so sorry, darling. Truly, I am.

You wouldn’t believe how much I won at roulette last night at the Casino Barrière. Oh yes, darling, Audrey Hepburn was there playing blackjack. Yes, with Kevin Costner. It’s true. I saw them myself.

An adult fairy tale. That’s the myth and allure of Cannes. A world where style and class and luxury and leisure are all stirred together into a lethal fantasy cocktail. We may never go ourselves, but it helps us to get through our dreary lives just knowing that a world exists where princes and movie stars sit at piano bars drinking martinis with nothing more pressing to do in the morning than make sure the Aston Martin DB7 they have leased for the week has been polished to an Oscar worthy sheen by the parking attendant.

But I must stop musing now. The baby’s got a poopy diaper…

July 2004