Annual on the terrace 2
From dinner it’s a long beautiful, palm tree-lined walkway up to the terrace bar for drinks looking out over the gardens. A stunning view.
When it’s go go go for several days straight on the crowded Croisette, it’s not a bad idea to get away from the frenzy. The Croisette is a one massive clusterf-ck. The terrace is super chill and never gets going until well after 1am. By this time, um, including dinner beverages, well, you know, it’s Grey Goose hour, right?
We were exchanging stories about psycho stalker exes when Robert Pattinson sauntered in – as I tweeted last night – looking like a boy on top of the world. It’s been a triumphant first festival for him, especially since it’s not like he has a film entry. But Cannes is about the full court pimp. And Pattinson has solidified his new super celebrity status as Summit successfully maneuvered their golden boy through Cannes this week culminating on the carpet last night at Inglourious Bastards where he received a very, very enthusiastic welcome. Some girl collapsed, fell to her knees, when his image was beamed up on the big screen. She was young though. Forgiveable. Thankfully no twi-hard adult lunatics, at least in my vicinity, decided to embarrass themselves.
And this is why you don’t take pictures on the terrace. Please.
Anyway, here’s Pattinson arriving last night, a significant improvement from carpets past when I’ve seen him all open mouthed inviting flies. On this night, the amount of closed mouth time greatly exceeded the amount of open mouthed time. Wonder if he’s practising. Because Laura has a bit of a crush on him, and she noticed it immediately. That he seemed to catch himself mouth wide open and remind himself to close it again quickly so that there are now fewer photos of his open mouth and this is encouraging and you twi-hards should be very proud of him: when a young star can follow instruction, show improvement, it’s a very good sign. He looked great. Very, very handsome. And there appears to be a new pout that is replacing the gaping. Excellent.
Also– you know how when you put on a pair of heels you walk differently? More confidently? Your gait changes?
A tuxedo is like high heels for Robert Pattinson. Because he has this kinda dorky unmistakable gait. Bounces up and down, he lopes. Last night though it was like he’d been practising walking too. In his tux there was no loping. It was a good gait. And the good gait continued onto the terrace. Almost a strut. But not like he owned the place, unlike that irritating wee flea Emile Hirsch.
Pattinson arrived with the same two people who accompany him to these events. And another business person. When they sat down, all of them pulled out their blackberries. They were at the table next to us and Laura, fortunately, had the best view. Fortunately because it’s becoming a problem for her. Like when he walked in she almost lost her sh-t. I told her to drink some more rose and chill the f-ck out.
She says he chainsmoked and laughed a lot and his shirt was open at the neck and this was delightful to her. She also noted that when he’s comfortable and out of the spotlight, he hardly touches his hair.
Gripping, I know.
Meanwhile, Mio and I tried to ignore her and ordered more $40 cocktails. You pay for your view with alcohol.
Thankfully Laura was able to collect herself rather quickly and we resumed our discussion about body odour in Europe. Like, there’s a new level to this sh-t and we’re wondering if it’s the cheese because I don’t smell in North America or in Asia, I can work out hard with Hayley for 90 minutes, not shower and still go on the nightly news without smelling but here, in Europe, simply walking around for an afternoon, we don’t reek or anything but it’s like my body is taking on biological properties I never knew existed. We are all experiencing the same phenomenon.
So, like ignorant bitches, we’ve decided it must be cheese. We are consuming so much cheese, it’s making us smell.
You can imagine, after a few cocktails, we are killing ourselves at this point. But along came Emile Hirsch for the buzzkill.
What is Emile Hirsch?
Emile Hirsch is a little sh-t. In interviews, in public, in private, a smug little sh-t. Reckons himself an artist or something. An auteur. Being Sean Penn’s protégé apparently gave him the right to develop an enormous Napoleon complex. So he hops around trying to be important and insightful with an insufferably condescending rugratty little voice and a portfolio of opinions he truly believes everyone can’t wait to hear.
Enter Emile with his girlfriend and a few other attractive ladies like the place belonged to him. He approached Pattinson for a quick word, and a cigarette, them stomped around some more, then rejoined Pattinson’s table with his crew where he proceeded to loudly put down Brendan Fraser, expound ad nauseum on some film he had seen, and then offer his brilliant review on another.
Classic little dude trying to be the big dude. You know the little dude who has to dominate the conversation because he’s so insecure about not being to dominate the height chart? That is Emile Hirsch. Ugh.
The birds were singing. It was time to bail. Reluctantly for Laura.
Emile is in Cannes for Taking Woodstock. Photos from both carpets.
Oh and Laura also wants me to pass on that Pattinson seemed shy when he was introduced to Emile’s pretty ladies. Are you squeeing twi-hards?
Photos from Wenn.com and Bauergriffinonline.com and Gettyimages.com