Deep breaths. Another deep breath. He tried his best to control his racing heart.
But it was no use. His heart kept pounding, feeling like it was about to explode.
Nicholas tasted bitterness in his mouth.
He thought he had co to terms with it all—remaining calm and collected, accepting that whether it was the jury or the official festival catalog, they only represented a small group's aesthetic tastes. It didn't have to perfectly align with his own, and the opposite was true as well.
He had tried to keep an open mind, truly imrsing himself in the festival's atmosphere. There was no need to obsess over the awards like with the Oscars. The real focus should be on the films—that's what a film festival is really about.
Yet here he was, unraveling—
Falling apart.
Nicholas took another deep breath, trying to convince himself not to let bias cloud his judgnt. There was no need to be so harsh on The Cotrell Family.
Unfortunately, he failed.
Nicholas didn't like The Cotrell Family, not because of the 0.3 rating in the official catalog, but because he couldn't comprehend how this film made it into the main competition. To him, it was a complete farce.
The truth was, Bertrand Blier, now in his later years, had seen his creative abilities decline dramatically. His codies had devolved into chaos, and the quality of his films had plumted.
It was what it was. Plain and simple.
But now?
The Cotrell Family had not only made it into the main competition but was called back on the final day, just one step away from winning the Pal d'Or.
The very thought made Nicholas's stomach churn.
He wanted to throw up.
And it wasn't just him. The entire press room felt the sa.
Sighs. Groans. Shouts of disbelief filled the air—
So stood staring at the TV screen, unable to believe their eyes, as if they could burn holes into it; others were tugging at their hair—whatever was left of it; and so stord through the press room like enraged dinosaurs.
So quietly stepped outside to light a cigarette; others gulped down whiskey for courage, sat in front of their laptops, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but their minds were blank.
It was all different, yet the shock was universal.
Nicholas noticed Carl's stunned expression and gently patted him on the shoulder.
Startled, Carl finally rembered to breathe.
Taking a deep breath, though his flushed face wasn't likely to calm down anyti soon, Carl rubbed his face and struggled to find the right words.
"The Cotrell Family... it's not that bad..."
But the sentence never finished. Carl just stared blankly at Nicholas.
Nicholas shrugged, "Just admit it, The Cotrell Family is awful."
Carl gave a bitter smile. "So, has the Pal d'Or ever gone to a film that ranked at the bottom of the official catalog?"
Nicholas stroked his chin, "Huh, I haven't thought about that. Might need to dig through my mory. Worth researching."
Carl chuckled. "So, would it be better if the Pal went to The Cotrell Family or The Brown Bunny?"
Nicholas's eyes lit up with amusent. "Now that's a good question."
So, were they finding humor in their misery?
At that mont, a ripple of disturbance spread through the room like a wave.
"Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous!"
Soone in the crowd couldn't hold it in any longer, muttering angrily as they stord out of the press room, unwilling to witness this mont in history.
And it wasn't just one or two.
Once the first person left, a small group followed, their frustration and anxiety fuming like hot air, ready to set the dry paper in the room ablaze.
True, they were journalists, and they had a job to do, but was there really any reason to stick around?
Not really.
After the brief storm, those remaining in the press room couldn't help but sigh. They couldn't bla those who had left.
Refocusing, one by one, they started typing away, getting back to work.
From a movie lover's perspective, this was a complete disaster; but from a journalist's perspective, they were about to witness history:
Patrice Chéreau and his jury were about to award the Pal d'Or to The Cotrell Family, the lowest-rated film in the history of the Cannes official catalog.
At the sa ti, five films would share seven awards, with The Barbarian Invasions taking both Best Actress and Best Screenplay, and two winners sharing Best Actor. Bold, unexpected decisions were made at every turn, shattering expectations.
This year's festival was different.
Just as everyone was debating whether the highest-rated film in the catalog deserved the Pal d'Or, the Cannes jury was about to make history by going the other way entirely.
It was clear that after tonight, the global film community would be in an uproar.
Nicholas took another deep breath and got to work.
Fingers hovering over his keyboard, he gathered his thoughts.
"Controversy.
That is the one word that defines the 2003 Cannes Film Festival. It's both positive and negative, as Patrice Chéreau's jury leaves history with a question that only ti can answer..."
Click-clack.
Nicholas's mind raced. Though he was frustrated, angry, and disappointed, he managed to focus, channeling all those emotions into his writing.
On the TV screen, Patrice Chéreau took the stage.
No ceremony, no skits, no breaks. One award after another was being announced, with the Pal d'Or coming up next.
But there was no suspense.
Not just in the press room, but in the Lumière Theatre as well—
Using a process of elimination, everyone knew the answer. All eyes were on Bertrand Blier. This extraordinary Cannes Film Festival was about to conclude in an extraordinary way.
The Pal d'Or, one of the highest honors of the European film festivals, is a career-defining achievent for any filmmaker.
The room buzzed with anticipation.
The guests weren't even paying attention to Chéreau. Instead, all eyes were on Blier.
Even Alex and Eric, two outsiders, sensed the tension and glanced at Anson, but now wasn't the ti for explanations. Anson signaled them to be patient, then turned his gaze back to the stage.
Under the spotlight, Patrice Chéreau could feel the room's restlessness. The attention that should've been on him had shifted, but he remained calm and composed, like a serene Buddha.
He went through the motions, giving a brief speech and symbolically opening the envelope. Even though everyone knew the answer, the ceremony had to play out. Otherwise, it would lose its flair.
Procedure mattered.
But unlike the Oscars, there was no drawn-out drama. After a simple breath, Chéreau revealed the winner.
"...Pal d'Or goes to Elephant."
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