Death Proof on the Riviera
Grindhouse girls (and Harvey Weinstein) come out to play at Cannes.
by Claire Evans
I'm still shaking the red glitter out of my party sandals from last night's Premiere/Von Dutch bash celebrating the extended version of Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof (or, if you prefer — and we kind of do — Boulevard de la Mort). Held in a cavernous space at the end of the Croisette, the festivities began around midnight and defeated us long before they appeared anywhere near their own demise. In addition to a thick carpet of said glitter — meant, one supposes, to evoke the film's signature luridness — nods to the movie included neon Route 66 signs (quel Americana!) and an attempt to replicate the Tex-Mex food enjoyed by the movie's doomed heroines — though not, as a fellow guest indignantly pointed out, any nachos grande (for which I am more than inclined to forgive the organizers; I shudder for any cleaning crew trying to manage the aftermath of drunken guests smearing refried beans and melted Velveeta all over the champagne glasses). The biggest hit of the night, though, were the cones of pink and blue cotton candy being made on-site. And though I've consistently proven myself singularly horrible at trend-spotting, if by some chance cotton candy hits it big and supplants mac & cheese and cupcakes on the nostalgic junk-food train, I totally called it.
Once on l'exterieur of the building, we found a more Super Mario-Arctic-level vibe, complete with frozen-sculpture settees, a sort of proto-ice rink (see photo gallery), and a massive foam igloo filled with skates, sponsored by Grey Goose. What all this had to do with the movie we can't say, but like so much else here in Cannes, we thought it best to just roll with it.
The first of the Death Proof stars to appear was Kurt Russell, escorting companion Goldie Hawn, whose combined decades of celebrity have evidently given them some sort of superhuman ability to navigate crowds at lightning speed, so other than the sudden explosion of shouting and shoving that greeted their entrance, most guests caught no more than a glimpse of the legends. That, alas, also goes for our photographer, who was able to capture but a flash of cleavage and smile and a retreating shock of the famous lemony hair (that would be Goldie's hair, not Kurt's) before they were sucked into the VIP vortex. Also moving through quickly were director Robert Rodriguez and his girlfriend, DP actress Rose MacGowan; stuntwoman and DP star Zoe Bell; director Abel Ferrara; and acclaimed cinematographer Christopher Doyle.
Meanwhile, producer Harvey Weinstein, looking trim and jovial, seemed more than willing to go a few rounds with the huddled masses, and director Wong Kar Wai (snapped in conversation by our intrepid, digital-zooming photog), whose competition film My Blueberry Nights opened the festival last week and who was an early-arriver to the event, spending much of the evening in low-key mode in a quiet corner.
Then it was back out to the Croisette with us, to rest up for another grueling day here on the Riviera.
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