Cannes 2015 Entry #4 – The Market Screenings
The best thing about market screenings – if you aren’t buying or selling – is some kind of ego formulation: “I could have made that better. How did this film even get representation? Let’s walk out and filter some conceited pleasure in doing so.” I have to admit, no matter how **** the film, I struggle to walk out, not for didactic reasons (though we all wish to support our fellows), but because my imagination insists on discovering more about the image. It’s like cutting the cord short, taking a leap off a tall building to your demise and never finding out the what if (I hadn’t jumped). It is a parallel with life; we all know this lays the foundation for the essence of cinema, or am I projecting too much here? Don’t we have to over-project anyway as a cinema spectator? Do I take cinema too seriously? Shouldn’t we take it seriously? Okay…
Exploring the depths of independent cinema – one minute you are watching a Cantonese language film about an old head schoolmistress having a social/economic crisis, and the next moment you might be watching a German adolescent pierce the skin of her thigh with a musical instrument (true story). There is a great range and while one might have to endure some painstaking hours, you will always find the hidden treasures (if you stay long enough) and make a new discovery on your journey through the galaxy of cinema. It’s like being a child at the fun fair and taking boundless lucky dips at the slots with no extra cost.
Occasionally, the sales agents will be hovering outside the entrance to cut off any slackers – people like myself who just want a bit more cinema and don’t stand as head of acquisitions for Lionsgate in the UK; what a festive job it could be as head of acquisitions… A representative gave me a slight look of madness when I said I wasn’t a festival programmer/director, sales agent or buyer, no consideration on her part for my willingness to explore and share their movie. The screening was practically empty and so ten minutes later the lady distressingly waved me through, yet to my distress, it meant I had missed the first ten minutes of the film – I can’t allow that to happen. Call it what you will, but again (taking cinema a bit seriously) it’s like forgetting to cut the umbilical cord; I’m left behind to miss the first crucial moments of a precious life. Okay, cinema might not be so drastic; it remains intact for what should be an eternity, but not allowing the imagination to play with opening moments causes a longing to return and an unsatisfied mind (promising a satisfied mind can exist). The counter argument to this would be that missing the beginning of a film makes one more focused, as they have to play catch-up, and give more attention over to what is really happening. Whatever… I don’t imagine the filmmaker wrote the first ten pages whilst thinking, “Yes, we can definitely cut this.”