"I'm trying to acquire a film by the New Zealand director Jane Campion called Sweetie. It's a dark comedy, small in scope, mostly about family dysfunction and female sexuality. But the director has real vision in the music and framing. Most importantly, it's beautifully finished; the story flows so smoothly that even people who don't usually like art-house films won't get bored."
Mountaintop villa in Le Cannet.
When Ira Deutchman and Robert Rem arrived, everyone moved to the dining room and talked about recent developments over lunch.
Simon had received the competition lineup the moment it was announced. Besides My Left Foot and Sex, Lies, and Videotape, the two films that caught his eye were Giuseppe Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso and Jane Campion's Sweetie.
Cinema Paradiso needed no introduction, it would win the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film in 1990 in the original timeline.
As for Sweetie, Simon hadn't seen it, but he was drawn to the director. Campion's later film The Piano which wouldn't exist yet in this timeline, was one of his all-time favorites.
His plan for this festival had been to let Ira operate freely first, then decide whether to step in depending on the outcome.
Hearing now that she too had zeroed in on Campion's film filled him with quiet satisfaction—especially the way he spoke about its commercial potential. Treating an art film like a commercial one was exactly the philosophy he'd been drilling into him.
Inside the dining room.
When Ira finished, Simon asked, "Can you get me a print? I'd like to watch it myself these next few days."
Ira thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll try. Shouldn't be a problem."
A servant brought the next course.
Conversation paused briefly. Simon tasted the red-wine-braised beef in front of him, then asked, "Anything else worth noting besides Sweetie?"
"Bertrand Blier's Too Beautiful for You, Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso, and Denys Arcand's Jesus of Montreal are all strong award contenders--along with our My Left Foot and Columbia's Sex, Lies, and Videotape. The problem is, a lot of North American distributors are circling Cannes this year, especially the films we're interested in. I'm not sure we'll land them."
Simon's 1987 Run Lola Run had won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance and become that year's box-office champion. His 1988 Pulp Fiction had taken the Palme d'Or and nearly claimed the annual crown again. Though the festival success and box-office triumphs weren't directly linked, they had undeniably heightened global distributors' hunger for award-winning films.
Daenerys Entertainment's string of recent hits had also put the entire industry on high alert, watching the company's every move. That scrutiny had already cost them several projects, including Sex, Lies, and Videotape, and it clearly wasn't over yet.
After a moment's thought, Simon said to Ira, "If we can't secure the films themselves, try locking in some of these directors for their next projects. That should be easier."
Iraagreed, then added, "I'm still using that 'final offer' tactic. Gaumont isn't going to get dragged into bidding wars."
Simon nodded and turned to Robert Rehme "What about you, Bob?"
"I've made some contacts with distributors in Eastern Europe over the past few days. The political situation there has been unstable the last couple of years, but they've loosened film-market restrictions." Rem paused, then added with a wry note, "Simon, I've flown internationally more in the past few months than in the last decade combined. Next week, right after Cannes, I'm off to Brazil. I doubt any studio distribution exec in Hollywood is busier than I am."
Simon glanced at him with a smile. "We're in rapid-expansion mode--everyone's in the same boat. It'll calm down in a couple of years. Though if you're unhappy with the company jet, I can approve something better."
Robert gave a polite laugh, inwardly disappointed, uncertain whether Simon had missed his hint then smoothly changed the subject.
Lunch ended at one o'clock.
Ira and Robert left for their hotel. Sophia headed off to handle final preparations for the Gucci event that evening.
Everyone scattered to their tasks; the staff were dismissed. The villa fell quiet.
Simon had no afternoon commitments, a rare luxury. He settled alone on the upstairs terrace, flipping through the latest computer-network technical papers Jennifer had gathered for him while she worked downstairs reorganizing his schedule for the coming days.
A little past two.
Mediterranean sunlight poured in through the open terrace. Simon lounged on a sunbed, half his body bathed in warmth, reading a paper on the HTTP protocol, when Natasha Kinski appeared silently behind him.
She crouched beside his chair in a red spaghetti-strap dress, gazing at him with feline stillness.
"Heading out?" he asked.
"My film, Torrents of Spring, has a screening at three."
Simon nodded. "Ah."
He knew the picture.
Valerie Golino had nearly taken the lead in this long-gestating project by the renowned Polish director Jerzy Skolimowski, but she'd chosen the Catwoman role instead. The film had already premiered on the 15th. Despite years of careful preparation, the critical response had been lukewarm compared to Skolimowski's earlier work.
Seeing Simon's cool reaction, Natasha said directly, "Come with me."
He'd reviewed the afternoon's schedule after lunch; nothing, including Torrents of Spring, interested him which was why he'd stayed home. He shook his head. "No."
Natasha tilted her head, then leaned closer. "I'll tell Janet you slept with me."
Simon turned a page. "There's only one possible outcome: either I throw you out, or Jenny does."
Natasha frowned in mild frustration, then edged even closer. "Fine. I won't tell her."
Feeling her lips nearly brush his ear, he reached out, pinched her chin gently. "Mission accomplished for whoever put you up to this. Stay and sunbathe with me."
With her aloof personality, she wouldn't have invited him to her own screening unless someone had asked her to. Just like last year when she'd voted her own way in the main competition jury, despite his assumption she'd support Pulp Fiction.
Natasha made a small sound of assent, shook her head free of his hand, but instead of moving to the neighboring lounger, she stood, straddled him, lowered herself, and rested her head on his chest. She shifted until comfortable, then closed her eyes.
The cool, soft weight of her blocked the sun. Simon only smiled. "Sleep. I'll take you to the party tonight."
He returned to his paper.
She stayed quiet only briefly before lifting her head again and tugging at a button in the center of his shirt. "Uncomfortable."
He reached over, hooked two fingers under the button, and flicked. The white disk popped free and arced away.
Natasha watched it land nearby, glanced up at him, then settled back down, satisfied.
When she woke, he was gone.
Sunset.
She remained in the same position, cheek against the lounger, breathing in a familiar yet strange lingering scent. Her eyes found the button still lying on the ground not far away.
The corner of her mouth curved faintly.
Living here for a year, she's felt a kind of ease she's never known.
No effort required for the most comfortable life.
Probably what she'd unconsciously craved since childhood.
Yet when she realizes he'll reappear soon, she understands nothing comes entirely free.
Sophia Fache, who manages his properties, had warned her: find a new boyfriend and she'd have to move out and definitely no bringing other men here.
Right after the divorce, the thought hadn't crossed her mind.
Then she'd grown used to this existence, and the housekeeper's warning had quietly become a tether.
She'd always lived as she pleased, but this time she knew breaking the rule meant leaving.
She didn't want to leave.
He's forced his way back into her life after all.
Plenty of men have wanted her body; she'd assumed he was no different.
After the initial discomfort, she'd started testing the waters.
Now she knows he isn't different.
He's worse.
Lovers usually feel possession, jealousy. He has none yet claims her with perfect naturalness. Even if one day she simply vanished, he'd probably accept it as equally natural, maybe give that indifferent smile.
Like a household cat wandering off.
Cats do that easily, after all.
The sun dipped below the horizon; dusk gathered. His scent faded in the cool evening sea breeze, yet she still didn't want to rise.
Footsteps approached.
Jennifer entered, saw Natasha languidly side-lounging on the sunbed eyes hazy, flaxen hair loose, one dress strap slipped from her shoulder, looking like someone still drifting in afterglow. Jennifer's brow creased; her voice cooled. "Miss Kinski, we're leaving for the Gucci party soon. You should change."
Natasha stood and followed the assistant downstairs. Gucci had sent over gowns; a stylist waited.
She'd assumed she'd be his date tonight.
But he'd already left.
Disappointment stung enough that she nearly skipped it out of spite. In the end she let the stylist finish, then rode to the Carlton Intercontinental in Cannes.
Compared to the post-Oscar attempt, this Cannes "Gucci Night" was far grander. Over two hundred invited European and North American film and fashion luminaries turned the hotel's red carpet into a rival to the festival's opening ceremony. Media from around the world descended.
Though coverage would inevitably scatter across various stars' appearances, the words "Gucci Night" would appear in every relevant report that was the event's core purpose.
Until eight o'clock when the party officially began, Sophia remained on edge, monitoring every detail.
As long as the pre-planned segments went smoothly, the evening would be flawless. Problems would only increase visibility the kind Sophia most wanted to avoid.
Simon served more as the party's mascot.
Angela Ahrendts had been clear at that lunch: many celebrities were attending because of him. He dutifully played his role.
Jennifer stayed at his side. Before leaving France, Sophia had sent a long guest list, asking her to memorize it and prompt Simon to personally greet certain names.
She'd arrived still annoyed after seeing Natasha's languid state, yet as she watched him glide through the crowd, switching languages effortlessly with guests, astonishment overrode everything even after witnessing countless near-miracles from him.
English was basic.
French unsurprising.
Spanish common enough.
Then German, Russian, Korean, Japanese, Italian, Hebrew…
Did you slip past God when He confounded the tongues at Babel?
"I've read the materials on Cinema Paradiso, Tonino. Daenerys is very interested. You should set up a meeting with Ira, talk about your next project."
…
"The film's failure wasn't your fault, Ms. Adjani… Of course, I'd love the chance to work with you someday."
…
"It's all right, Steve. You're only the director, not the financier."
…
"Cindy, Helena, 'didn't expect to see you two in Cannes. What a surprise."
…
"Yes, I speak a little Russian. I'd love to visit Moscow sometime."
…
After more than an hour of mingling, the scheduled fashion show began. Simon finally caught a breather.
Instead of joining the crowd around the runway, he pulled Jennifer into a quiet corner. "Remind Ira to meet Giuseppe Tornatore tomorrow."
Jennifer nodded, jotting it in her ever-present notebook, then looked up. "Should I also remind him about Isabelle Adjani?"
Simon paused, then smiled. "I was just being polite."
Public jealousy embarrassed her; she ducked her head as if writing, but her mouth didn't relent. "Didn't look like politeness to me."