Cannes Diary

I’m in the queue for the repeat screening at the unpronounceable Salle du Soixantieme (as opposed to the slightly easier-on-the-tongue Salle Debussy,Salle Bazin and so on). The drizzle is heavy,the umbrellas are out in full force,and we rush in,vying for the best seats. Which is not that hard,given the size of the auditoriums. They are massive,and only if you leave everything to the very last minute,will you be left out.

There’s been enough buzz about the in-competition Amour,so the theatre fills up rapidly. And then it starts,and you know,just the way you’ve always known it,that this is a film in which each element is in its place. Haneke is a Cannes darling,whose The White Ribbon has been feted right here a few years ago. The film barely leaves the apartment of an old couple in their eighties,except for the first few minutes: for the rest,it goes back and forth from a wife who is laid down viciously by a double stroke,and a husband who tries to cope,manfully.

It isn’t easy to do this kind of film without drowning in sentimentality. Amour stays away from it,and we stay with it,for its two hours and more run time,as the wife withers away slowly,losing speech and mobility,and the husband tracking her every step down with compassion,and yes,love. I’d be very surprised if Amour doesn’t take an honour. Or two.

Peddlers from Mumbai

It is also the day when the strong Indian presence starts showing its wares. Vasan Bala’s gritty first feature Peddlers — about of bunch of young people in a Mumbai zone not usually seen on screen — draws a healthy crowd. The film is screening at the Critic’s Week,a Cannes sidebar,which attracts the curious and the adventurous,because these are not the films which usually find an easy release. Bala’s film has been picked up for distribution in India,and it looks as if it will also find its way outward.