STONED AT CANNES . . . | A Damsel in Distress

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

STONED AT CANNES . . .

Posted By on Tue, May 26, 2009 at 4:55 PM

 

“How’d you like to go to the can?”

 

“WHAT? Sharon – it’s the middle of the fucking night. Go to the -- ?


“It’s only midnight in L.A. and it’s not THE can, you idiot, it’s Cannes! The film festival! I need a lady in waiting! Mine just got the flu!” Sharon was begging me.

 

“. . . The swine flu?”

 

“No. The regular flu. She’s Jewish. Vegan. Grew up on a fucking kibbutz for Christ's sake. I can switch her tickets and e-confirm you later this morning. You’ve gotta say yes.”

 

“But . . . Mercury’s retrograde . . . .”

 

“Like my career, honey. And don’t tell me you’ve got a better offer in fucking Little Rock, I need you!”

 

So Sharon threw in a couple of days for me in Paris after Cannes, and another couple of days in London, so I could see old friends.

 

There is nothing I won’t do for an old friend in need who’s covering my expenses. Just how I am.

 

I was suddenly on the Sharon Stone Express to Cannes.

 

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Checking into the Cap in Antibes, the desk required me to sign a five-page nondisclosure agreement from Chaos Productions, Sharon’s production company. Except I’m thinking, “Is Chaos still in business? Or is this some not-really-legal bullshit on Sharon’s defunct production company’s letterhead?”

 

Legally I’m not supposed to drop names or talk about events on this trip. Not that I would, but let’s get started.

 

Sharon wore a lot of Malandrino-ish things, which look fabulous on her. And she SERIOUSLY worked the amFAR Gala and Auction Thursday night.

 

(You HAD to ask. I wore – well, I have a sort of tacit non-compete clause with Sharon at these things. I always go severe ballerina bun with the hair; dress down in vintage Armani neutrals and NO bling. Lois Lane for the New Millennium to Sharon’s latest reinvention of her signature role, Catherine Tramell.)

 

My two most thrilling moments at Cannes 2009? Honestly?

 

  1. LUNCH, one day, prepared by my very very dear, very very old friend, chef Arnaud Poëtte at the Cap. Striped bass with fennel mousseline and tomato Beurre Blanc. I can die now, Arnie. Except for –

  2. Witnessing Sharon become “Sharon Stone” that first night in her suite, and every day and night thereafter. Talk about your resurrections. I learned - not just about wardrobe and makeup and hair, but - a profound Life Lesson too!

 

Sharon’s amazingly organized. THAT outfit with THAT hair and THOSE accessories for THAT function. Yet she’s a spontaneous whirling dervish too! Pisces with her Moon in Sag.

 

Plus it’s Mercury retrograde so she keeps changing her mind(s) and genre(s) whilst her stylists (and I) try to keep up.

 

One thing Sharon DOESN’T vacillate about is The Face.

 

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She's naturally pretty. Holding well at 51. But the goal is to Stop Traffic. Here's how she does it.


I sit by her, hypnotized, as she expertly applies surprisingly little makeup – yet somehow refines, sculpts and perfects her moneymaker in the mirror. She knows I’m fascinated.

 

“It’s all about contrast and blending,” she confides, deftly morphing into “Sharon Stone” before my eyes. Takes maybe 15 minutes, total, she has it so down. How’d she become so expert at this?

 

“Honey, I know more tricks than Marlene Dietrich.”

 

I’m working out exactly what that means when Sharon rises, throws off her robe, nakedly extends both arms and motions her wardrobe duo, “Let’s get dressed.”

 

No undergarments are involved. (Note to self: Try This At Home.)

 

We dress her in a sheer black Malandrino. Accessorize her. Her eyes never leave the mirror. She turns, shifts . . . studies The Face from every angle in the room’s light.

 

Now she scrutinizes her body line. Turns. Throws a glance at the mirror over her shoulder. Quickly scans the pose from head to toe. Makes small adjustments. Turns again. Poses anew. Instantly critiques the view.

 

Shakes her head. “Still too dark. Get this thing off me and bring me that foundation. I am NOT taking these nipples into that room.”  She’s out of the Malandrino, naked again.


Sharon lightens her areolae and nipples with La Prairie. Snaps her fingers: “Lipstick.” Pinks-‘em-up. Snap. “Spritz.” She sets her nipple makeup with Daria Werbowy’s “Model in a Bottle.”

 

Back in the sheer Malandrino, she re-surveys herself in the mirror.

 

“Perfect! Great job, guys. Let’s go kill.” She’s off, entourage swimming in her wake.

 

I’m thinking, “She could be right about the ‘Dietrich’ thing. Sharon may still be doing this, looking the same, still crossing and uncrossing her legs commando in ‘Basic Instinct:2040 – iMAX’ when she’s 83.”

 

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Everything else at Cannes pales in comparison to Sharon’s becoming "Sharon Stone.”

 

She’s fabulous as always at the amFAR event honoring President Clinton’s work fighting HIV/AIDS worldwide. The credit crunch, unfortunately, has hit Cannes. Sharon and her 700 pals are barely able to raise $5 million – about HALF what they raised last year.

 

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But it doesn’t get better than Arkansas’ own President Big Dawg blowing his sax up and down the Riviera and talking about STDs.

 

I don’t know what Paris and Ivana and Donatella are here for but it’s fun playing catch-up backstage. Plus Annie’s still got it. Fabulous performer and singer. (Swears her secret is shea butter, so I’m looking into it now that I’m back.)

 

Sadly, I couldn’t live-blog ANY of Cannes to you Razorbabies! Here’s why.

 

BYE, BYE BLACKBERRY

 

I only had two days to get ready and go. Forget last-minute wardrobe decisions, packing, arranging for household maintenance and pet care. That took one whole day.

 

But have you ever tried to set up your Blackberry for Europe? I hadn’t.

 

It involves “unlocking” the thing; SIM card shizz; a BB data plan on the TMO Europe account for BES . . . on and on. I had help (Bruno from Bridgeway), but finally did it.

 

Then my Blackberry fell out of my blouse pocket the first day at some yacht party when a recently-unemployed William Morris agent who was let go in last week’s merger with Endeavor accidentally jostled a sushi roll from my hand and I leaned over to retrieve it and my Blackberry bounced off the deck into the fucking Mediterranean. Which, BTW, looks fabulous for its age.

 

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Plus I’m on the Sharon Stone Express and barely have time to go to the can at Cannes, much less text to a blog.

 

(Strangely, I’m still haunted by my Blackberry resting at the bottom of the sea like that robot kid in “Artificial Intelligence” in the amphibi-pod, bleating faithfully, waiting to be turned into a Real Phone and play all the voice messages I’ve gotten since May, 2009. It only lived to serve . . . and now . . . sad, somehow.)

 

Which reminds me: the films.

 

Up.” Magnificent. 3-D or 2-D. Standing ovation. Not a dry eye in the Palais full of hard-core Industry movers and shakers and critics in goggles.

 

Lars von Trier’s / Antichrist” – All Employees Must Wash Hands Before Leaving Restroom. Really. Won Best Actress for somebody named Charlotte Gainsbourg. Really. Meryl Streep she’s not. It’s Mel Gibson’s male S&M “The Passion” only hetero- and without the religion but with close-ups of bloody genital mutilation and a pseudo-profound theme of grief and eroticism that I’m pretty sure won’t connect with local demographics except the recreational-substance audience who frequent Market Street Cinema (God love ‘em) and not even most of them. People actually puked and fainted. And I'm not the only one.

 

Inglourious Basterds” – oh, honey, it’s Quent! On-purpose misspellings, historical bitch-slaps, Brad Pitt at his worst or maybe his best, and all. It’s Quent! Wonderful and silly and startling and thought-provoking and exuberant film-making and shitty and audacious and frankly he’s just the nicest guy. ADD and twitchy, but a sweetheart. I loved it. Others not.

 

Then, two days in Paris and two days in London with old friends and new.

 

I met Richard Dawkins when he lectured in Little Rock a year or so ago and I bought “The God Delusion.” I didn’t realize until I got home that he’d signed it, “Fondly, Mickey Dolenz.” Which I had to Google because the Monkeys and their oeuvre were before my time.

 

We’ve since become email pals – Dick, not Mick – so we’d arranged lunch in London with several of his friends and students before my Blackberry drowned. This time he really signed my copy of “The God Delusion.”

 

“For Norma – Dick.”

 

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The Continent loves Obama and they’re obsessed with two things American: Religion and Healthcare.

 

“What’s with the States and the Religion thing? Is it getting worse?” and “What’s up with healthcare? My God, are you people ever going to catch up? Take the States back from the thieves?” One of them emailed me this link for when I got back, to post for you.)

 

Best thing was nearly two weeks without a mention of Adam Lambert or Kris Allen.

 

Until somebody sent me this audience reaction YouTube link in my absence. Which captures the mentality.

 

Despite Mercury Retrograde mix-ups even WORSE than eLwood acknowledges, I finally arrive back in Little Rock (via detour to Turkey), to THIS:

 

The A-B’s veered into titillating intra-blogger virtual-sex flirtations; Doyle Webb’s gone down on Kathy Webb (no relation) for being too Suze Orman; Kim Hendren’s retro- “that Jew” stand-up routine gets him booed off the political stage; an alligator hauls its prehistoric ass up Hwy 71 to escape the poisonous Lake Greeson / Turk Plant coal thingie and find a cleaner swamp; my favorite Kavanaugh late-night bar’s now dubbed “Brokeback Fountain” and I can’t stop laughing when I learn why.

 

Plagiarism at Heifer (unattributed quotes from CHICKENS? I don’t understand. I’ve been out of the country). New (or re-nicked) and ever-more-irrational trolls here who embody Time Magazine’s succinct summation of Carrie Prejean: “Passionately defends her right to infringe on others’ rights.”

 

God, despite prayers by Funnel Cake vendors from as far away as Florida, rains on RiverFest. Uruguay, despite prayers, lifts its ban on gays in the military. Uruguay?

 

California, despite prayers, upholds legal religious discrimination in its State Constitution. Except for the 18,000 couples it doesn't discriminate against. Huh? "Xenu, I'm home!"

 

I DO miss the Concorde, Razorbabies . . . .

 

But I’m home. HOME! And this is my blog, and you're all here. And I'm not gonna leave here ever, ever again, because I love you all, and - oh, Uncle Max – it’s all about contrast and blending!

 

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