I know this isn’t a must-know topic for introverted, bathrobe-wearing writers who hate talking to people almost as much as they hate leaving the house, but I went to Cannes Film Festival for the first time, and thought I’d weigh in to tell you about my experience.

I’m an author, screenwriter, and fairly newish producer of ultra-low budget movies. I use the term movies, not films, to show you that anything I make as a producer (or write for that matter) will never be up for the Palm D’Or or even get close to playing on a screen at Cannes. I write commercially marketable movies for VOD streaming sites and networks. Not heavy dramas that make you question your existence and draw attention to social injustices. I have a lane and am happy to stay in it. I imagine myself in a fun little VW bug happily driving along in my lane.

When a short film I produced for my Short Film Bootcamp emerged from postproduction in January, I decided to enter it in Cannes. It cost the same as any other contest, and the bragging rights were well worth $60. I posted on social media that I had a film being considered at Cannes. All true. Don’t judge. The festival never got back to me. Ever. And now Cannes is over, so I’m assuming that out of thousands and thousands of submissions, our silly little mystery comedy did not make the cut. BUT, I spent two months thinking that on the off-chance it gets included in the festival, I would go. That started the ball rolling, as they say.

Is it Worth Going?

Cut to: Mid-April, tickets are now expensive, I still haven’t heard anything about the short film submission, and my co-producer on a Christmas Rom Com is going to Cannes and planning to pitch the movie that we shoot in two months. I could pitch the movie too! And the other projects on my production company slate, using the upcoming movie as my calling card. It’s a Christmas Rom Com, and what part of that doesn’t scream “Marketable”? If my co-producer, Derek, was going, I could go too. I wasn’t sure what I’d do in Cannes besides stroll around and try to make friends in the film industry, but soon I was submitting for accreditation to Cannes for a chance to buy a ticket. Did you know you can’t just buy a ticket and go? Me neither. You have to get accepted. I did not get accepted as an independent, but my LLC, Paisley Hat Productions, did. I bought my ticket thinking this was a sign and booked my flights on Air France to Nice, the closest airport if you don’t have access to a private jet to fly you directly to Cannes.

I furiously updated my production company pitch deck, made biz cards specifically for Cannes, joined a WhatsApp Cannes group, bought a membership to the American Pavilion in Cannes (the only pavilion that needs membership to get in) and got ready to pitch in Cannes. Using Cinando, the magazine portal for film markets, I tried to figure out how to access people I wanted to pitch and message them. I sent emails, got no response, and boarded my flight to Paris without a meeting on the books.

Bonjour France!

I landed in Nice after being awake for 24 hours, and as an adventurous spirit and cheapskate, I decided to take the train into Cannes. I’d watched a YouTube video on how easy it was and proceeded to follow instructions. Going in the wrong direction. With a dead phone. In a country that speaks French. I speak a bit of French so my pride had me trying to communicate with everyone en francais, which was a mistake. People I spoke to in French assumed I understood their instructions on how to get to Cannes, and I pretended to know what they were saying because I’d opened the francophone can of worms and needed to stick with the language.

Three hours later, I arrived in Cannes and followed the crowd to the Croissette, where the festival takes place. I was pulling a suitcase with a heavy purse perched on top. Extremely grateful my suitcase had wheels and was no bigger than a Costco flat of paper towels, I sweated my way along the French Riviera to get my badge before checking into my Airbnb. I had a QR code to get my badge at a kiosk on the far side of the Croissette and did not need to line up with the masses. If I could just keep my phone charged long enough to access the QR code. The crowds were crazy, the traffic was grid-locked and I soon found my way to the kiosk to get my badge making me official. Then, I found friends at the Fantastique Pavilion, a hangout for genre film (horror, sci-fi, fantasy, etc.) and parked my suitcase at their booth while I joined the throng of filmmakers having cocktails on the deck. Cannes had begun.

I’d been awake for 30 hours at this point and boarded a bus to my Airbnb only to realize it was the wrong bus. I jumped off and started walking again. My phone was dead, so I found a pharmacy and charged it enough to call the condo host to arrange to meet her to access the apartment. I called an Uber. Finally!

I waited 90 minutes for the host to show up. With a dead phone and a dead power bank. Finally, I asked a parked taxi driver if I could charge in his car and called the host who pretty much yelled at me for not having a charged phone. She was NOT COMING TO THE CONDO but waiting for me to call her once at the keypad to give me instructions. After complicated instructions, I entered the oceanfront condo, changed clothes, and headed back to the Croissette to join friends for the best gnocchi in Cannes even though I’d been up for 32 hours and felt like wet noodles in cream sauce myself.

Time to Hustle

The next day, back to the Croissette’s American Pavilion, where coffee was free, I planned my day. Getting the membership at the Am Pav was a godsend. Not just for the coffee, but to meet people there. I wandered around the Marche (the market) and came upon a distributor from AFM and spoke to him about the completed Rom Com seeking distribution. We joked about writing a Rom Com together set in Friday Harbor, a place near my home, and after giving him my card and a promotional postcard, I was off. Good start, right?

Over the next three days, I’d go to panels, wander the Marche, and try to avoid the red carpet. I was not at the Festival to see a film. Nor was I there to try to catch a glimpse of a celebrity. Increasingly, over the next few days, I did wonder more than once why I was there. What had I hoped to accomplish? I hoped I was meeting any expectations I’d had when I booked the ticket.

A highlight of the trip was a Cannes black-tie soiree at a villa overlooking the town, hosted by Stage 32, along with two other organizations, and Amanda Toney and RB Botto were on hand to make sure their exclusive guest list enjoyed themselves. It was a gala affair, and getting home at 5 a.m. proved I must’ve had a grand time.

I was a wreck the next day, dragging my sorry butt all over the Croissette trying not to lose a day. I eventually gave up at 5 pm, and after waiting for the #22 bus for almost 2 hours and losing my favorite scarf to the relentless wind and the streets of Cannes, I started walking along the coastline road towards the condo. At first, the walk felt good -- the cool breeze in my face, the exercise. Then it became problematic, and there was no place for an Uber to pick me up with no shoulders on the road. By the time I reached the condo I had blisters and was almost in tears. Thankfully, I’d been texting with a producer friend back in LA who cheered me on. Back in the condo, when I saw my bed, I got sucked in.

The next morning, I was back on the Croissette as the town was just waking up for the day. I sat at a café having several cups of that tiny French coffee that’s strong enough to peel wallpaper and texted Derek to see what was on for the day. We did a yacht meeting with a French producer. I went to a talk on the new distribution model for indie filmmakers and ended up at the Am Pav talking to an 84-year-old female producer who’d made the movie Convoy with Sam Pekinpah back in the day. That hour of conversation was worth all my travel snafus up to that point. She was an inspiration.

Derek had me wingman for his 4 pm meeting, and it turned out to be the Friday Harbor co-writer/distributor. He asked for my 3 finished movies and wants to see our completed Christmas movie in Fall 2026. Boom. Then we met with a producer/financer and had more fun than is probably allowed in a business meeting that may or may not have had me singing Don’t Cry for Me Argentina and eventually ended up at the Brazil pavilion at a reception.

Last Day, Make it Count

That last day, copious amounts of business cards were exchanged in my fierce desperation to get as much on the books as I could. After another reception at the Fantastique Pavilion, I went with friends to dinner on the beach. Afterwards, walking back to where I’d call an Uber, I remembered Stage 32 had taken over a bar nearby called Brown Sugar, and I turned right to find the bar.

Once inside the noisy throng, I hid my purse and suit jacket in a corner, got a drink, and found myself talking to young studio and financing execs. Three or four hours later, Brown Sugar was closing, and I got swept up in the crowd to head to another bar with Stage 32’s RB leading the way. At 5 a.m., inside an Uber, I told myself I’d sleep on the plane and set my alarm for 7 a.m. for an 11 o’clock flight from Nice.

My phone didn’t plug in properly and I woke to a dead phone and no idea how much I’d overslept. I charged my phone enough to see the time and threw everything into my tiny suitcase. It was 8 a.m. I had time to make the flight. I felt like I’d been run over by a truck as I rushed to the airport to fly out of Nice to Paris then on to Seattle. Two flights, a shuttle, and a neighborly pickup at the shuttle stop later, I was home on my lovely island in the PNW.

Was it Worth Going to Cannes After Coming Home Exhausted?

Yes. For lots of reasons. For this middle-aged widow in the throes of a second, late-in-life career, I came home proud I’d made the effort, navigated hellish travel snafus, and made interesting contacts. Sure, I’ve spent the last 5 days feeling like a rock star after a world tour, but I also have memories of being at the Cannes Film Festival and Marche to hustle my production company’s film slate.

And not a lot of late-in-life widows, working hard to make a new career, can say that. Or can say that a studio executive bought my book on his phone at Brown Sugar while I watched him, and if he likes the story, wants to talk about making the movie in Spain. Fingers crossed.

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