The Cannes Film Festival used to be a exclusive enclave of incredibly annoying pansexual European filmmakers droning on about their craft while a loaded Quentin Tarrantino babbled to a girl pretending to be interested and not at all like a French prostitute. Now it's just Coachella for even whiter richer hipsters. You've got corporate parties and The AIDS galas and nightclub headliners and bottled water companies giving away water like it's water. Kylie Minogue dropped by to perform on the beach and show off her panties, a prelude to wardrobe malfunctions you'll see from Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan several hours later into the evening in the French version of street gutters. At some point, everybody will need to give a standing ovation to a bunch of films they slept through or missed, but will insist as publicly as possible were the most important films of the year that you really must see. Yes, I know, another Iranian boy has no shoes or lesbian German teens are savagely treated by their strudel making stepfather. I'm on it.
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