Fear and Loathing on La Croisette – Part 2
David Nobay, founder and creative chairman, Marcel, Sydney is sitting on the Outdoor Lions jury. In Gonzo style, he reports exclusively for Campaign Brief.
Your standard issue, provincial French desk concierge falls easy prey to bitter prejudice, rained down by bloated, semi-illiterate, invariably mid-western, fanny-pack freaks; juiced to the max on day-glo, sugar-rich sodas and wrongfully boasting English as their primary language.
But the Cannes-based concierge is an altogether different beast and must only be engaged with extreme caution and, ideally, heavily armed. And here, mark my words, no such liberal or PC sympathies should apply. For this utterly feral, outlying genetic strand of the domesticated species is nothing short of a sadistic, stone cold mercenary; honed in the dark arts of pagan sacrifice and total “nose to tail” cannibalism: more than ready to disembowel naive, low level, bottom-rung, lobby plankton with casual ease and utter abandon.
The pristinely dressed goon presently eying me over his rose gold YSL lightweight frames is a case in point: Michel, (according to his lapel badge, but doubtless not his real name), analyzes my newly acquired wardrobe from the ground up, with the practiced lens of a Harvard neuro-surgeon.
First, Michel takes in my box-fresh, powder blue, suede Ferragamo loafers. He pauses, only to register my fleshy, un-socked ankle and affords me the faintest nod of approval. Then north, to my HUGO BOSS hot pink linen, wide shouldered, two button suit (just one of ten I purchased moments ago on my Publicis corporate Amex in preparation for the hideous contest ahead). The ridiculously baggy marquis pants are pulled in high and sharp by a EURO 2,500 Hermes green lizard-skin belt with the iconic “H” buckle pronouncing its proud defiance in glistening, rose gold. The combination is unashamedly brazen and projects its crude message, guns blazin’ across the tatty lobby like a primed 12lb sack of C4.
Michel, as with all these CIA backed and SEAL-trained pseudo receptionists, appreciates the subtle, time honored code of rose gold. And, wisely respecting this local convention myself, I have taken the precaution to plump for its metallic glow at every possible opportunity: even my Publicis issue, limited-roaming iPhone is now bathed in an authentic, rose gold Chanel sheath. Deep cover played out at this high level is a 100% commitment game and I’m leaving nothing to chance.
Michel’s mouth twists into a cruel, half dolphin smile. He instinctively knows he’s dealing with significant money here; albeit nouveau. The whiff of my EURO foghorn has already impregnated his fine, Gallic nostrils and he leans in closer; intrigued by my wardrobe’s savagely uncompromising theatre.
“How is your room Monsieur Nobbly?”
“Frankly, Michel, I’m not impressed”.
“Pourquoi? It is one of our best standard singles?”
“And there you have it my friend. Goddamnit! I was personally selected for the Outdoor Jury by News Ltd Australia. Could you imagine Rupert would be happy with a standard single?”
Before he even stammers a response, I know my casual reference to the Dark Knight has drawn blood. Cannes concierges are famously impervious to high level intimidation. Years of Hollywood elites bemoaning the tardiness of their room service orders have toughened the outer skin of these lobby overlords to a battle-proof Kevlar more than capable of deflecting a full frontal attack from a banshee-crazy Angelina Jolie. And yet, and yet…the whiff of a possible family connection to the Clan Murdoch is an altogether more terrifying proposition. He is Australian, technically, after all. Whether we want him or not. My nuclear deterrent released and airborne, I slouch laconically across his antique olive leather desk; victory almost at the plate.
“You do not like the hotel?”
“Let me be blunt Michel: it lacks kerb appeal. And the bidet was clearly designed for a dwarf. I must have a properly hydrated anus at all times. It’s vital if I am to efficiently perform my jury duties here!”
“Anything else Monsieur?” By now he is scribbling notes. Traction achieved.
“I am one of the super-elite judges selected for the prestigious Lions OUTDOOR category…as you can plainly see from my suit, I am at the pointy end of this godless industry…”
His bic hovers over the pad. Clearly the dots are not joining up for Michel.
“OUTDOOR!” I scream, drawing the attention of some young Swedish students battling in vain to attain affordable hotel wifi just a few yards from me.
“I must be almost entirely Outdoor, at all times, if I have any chance of unearthing a credible outdoor Grand Prix! You understand my dilemma, surely?”
“Ah, I understand”. Michel is back in the saddle. “You require a balcony room?”
“The very best you have. Expense is of no importance. My lawyer assures me I have a legal prescient that insulates me from aggressive procurement assaults.”
“Then can I suggest our Donny Deutsch Rooftop Suite? It boasts an outdoor pagoda and self-cleaning jacuzzi. It’s also possible we could move your water bed outside, too?”
“Now you’re talking Le meme language mon ami!” As I kiss this uniformed ape full on the mouth, French style with heavy tongue, like a brother in arms. Now is not the time for nerves.
“Cigar friendly?” I add as I shove 20 to 30 brightly colored shopping bags in his direction. “As a recovering alcoholic, I am encouraged by my court-appointed specialist to imbibe at least three Cuban cigars a day. It’s an experimental decoy remedy. Swiss, I believe. Breakthrough stuff. I have all the current research paperwork, if required? In fact, on second thoughts, have 12 fresh boxes of Monte Cristo No2 charged to Lord Savage and sent up immediately. And cheese: I will require all the finest goats cheese you can get your silky hands on! Chèvre is very important and fundamental to the remedy.
Now a fully seduced, primed and an altogether more user-friendly proposition, Michel throws an arm over my heavily-cushioned shoulder pads, as he personally escorts me to the VIP lift.
“Would I know your work Monsieur Nobbly? You’re clearly a master.”
As we cram into the minuscule space, I offer this deranged fool my most conspiritual of winks:
“Name your favorite advertising?”
“Nike? Just Do It?”
“I did them all. All the really good ones”
“Old Spice?”
“Those too. Apart from the first one.”
“The fearless girl of Wall St?”
“My idea. 100%. I also chiseled the statue with my bare hands”
“Make America Great Again?”
“The Donald and I go way back. I have personally overseen all his branding activities since Watergate. Apart from Trump Steaks. That was the one time he ignored my advice, and it haunts him to this very day.”
“Trump is a great man. If only Marine Le Pen had been given the same chance. This country’s going to the animals!” Michel laments as he unlocks the huge double doors that signal I am finally home.
Scratch a little below the crisp white linen, turquoise silk and rich, brushed suede of this pretty coastal town and it’s not long before the unmistakable stench of white supremacy rises up to greet you. Big, ridiculous, aggressively sprayed hair and savage bigots go hand in hand down here in the south. The old time locals may outwardly welcome the fiscal glow of foreign ticket sales during Festival time, but never underestimate the bubbling presence of Le Front National seething from the picturesque hilltops above. Michel is undoubtedly a card carrying fascist, but it’s vital I keep this racist scoundrel close if I have any chance of surviving the horrors ahead.
As we walk onto the palatial rooftop deck that bears the former Ad Titan’s name, I am momentarily humbled by the sheer, gaudy, retro opulence of my upgraded digs. A Salmon pink leather, gold-stitch monogrammed, eight piece suite dominates the lounge, that opens onto a deck capable of hosting a perfectly respectable mid-sized Latvian orgy. My eyes instinctive
ly flick over the room service menu, like everything else in this porn-palace, braided in gold.
“Tell me, Michel, how is your bouillabaisse? Fresh I hope? No smelly langoustine. I only enquire, as the bouillabaisse at the Carlton tastes like pot noodle.”
“The finest in town sir. Would you like me to send some up?
“Yes, along with everything else on the menu. Twice, just to be sure. And hurry up with those cigars. This is a goddam medical emergency. I can already hear the mini bar whispering to me!”