Peter Bradshaw leapt at an invitation to be a judge at this year's Cannes film festival ? even though it meant an awkward meeting with a director he'd panned
The call came while I was on holiday, scrambling to answer my phone while wresting a collapsing ice-cream from my six-year-old son. A cultured French voice had a question for me from Thierry Fr�maux, director of the Cannes film festival. "Thierry would like to know if you will serve on the Un Certain Regard jury this year," she asked coolly. My yelpingly uncool four-word reply was: "Oui, I mean yes!"
And that was it. I was on the 2011 jury, judging the section of the festival intended to honour films with "a certain gaze"; films that were innovative and different. I was skittishly overexcited. A critic, of course, is judge and jury in his own little world. Having to fight your corner with four other cinephiles is something quite different.
My fellow jurors were Geoffrey Gilmore, director of the Tribeca film festival; Daniela Michel, director of the Morelia festival in Mexico; French actor �lodie Bouchez; and jury president, the double Palme d'Or-winning Serbian director Emir Kusturica, a man with an intimidating reputation. In 1995, Kusturica was involved in a fistfight on the beach in Cannes, after winning his Palme d'Or for Underground. Five guards "minding" Johnny Depp had managed to jostle Kusturica's group; a mighty battle ensued. The incident ended happily ? Kusturica bought drinks for all ? but he still looks as if he could kill a bear. Particularly if that bear has written a bad review of his film.
My reviews for Kusturica's recent movies had not been great, particularly his 2008 documentary on footballer Diego Maradona. At a party, I asked people how Kusturica might react to a British critic. A Belgian delegate said: "[He] respects honesty, passion. If you are like this, there will be no problem. But if you try to pull your Guardian bullshit with him, your two stars, three stars, you will be seeing stars!"
At the special gala dinner the next night, Geoff, �lodie and Daniela were delightful. Then Emir arrived, a little late. It was extraordinary to see close up his undeniable magnetism; over the next 10 days we never saw him without a crowd of fans around him. There were handshakes all round, Kusturica was charming, and then his gaze rested on me. "Guardian, huh?" he pondered. "The Guardian killed me with their review of my Maradona movie. Who wrote that review?"
I felt a sort of inner slurping as all the blood left my face. "Well," I said, taking an intense interest in a coffee spoon, ". . . it was probably . . ." ? oh, the passionless dishonesty ? "it could have been . . . it was . . . me." Kusturica smiled: "Well, I think you did not understand what was involved in the making of that movie." He smiled again and changed the subject. Could it be that the opinions of British critics meant less to him than I had assumed?
The festival began. There was a photocall and, dizzyingly, a red-carpet appearance at the opening gala, with the paparazzi screaming: "Emiiiirrr! �lodieeee!" All the glitz without the chore of having to make a film.
It was a tough schedule. There were two films a day to see, on top of my reviewing duties; we met formally twice, and there were informal chats. One evening, Kusturica went to Lisbon to play a concert; another day, he was made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. He was always relaxed and droll. Looking at the crowds one day, he mused: "When I was young, we waited in line for the new Bruce Springsteen album. Now they wait in line for the new iPad. It is all content, no?"
Our discussions, held in conditions of utter secrecy, were a model of calm and mutual respect. To my relief, they were also in English. I'm afraid there were no rows or fights, only a thoughtful atmosphere in which we really did consider the essence of cinema and what Kusturica called the "mythology of the author". There was only one tiny bone of contention. I was making what I considered a straightforward point; Kusturica said: "That is very simplistic of you, Peter. So Anglo-Saxon. So thuggish." He gave me a sleepy-lidded smile, the sort I imagine a grandmaster might give on checkmating someone easily.
In the end, we awarded the main prize jointly, to Kim Ki-Duk's autobiographical movie-essay Arirang, and to Andreas Dresen's profoundly moving Stopped On The Tracks. Our jury prize went to the Russian director Andrei Zvyagintsev's gripping drama Elena, while the director's prize went to Iranian film-maker and campaigner Mohammad Rasoulof for his courageous movie Good Bye. The verdict of posterity may be different ? but arriving at our verdict was an enlightening, educational and exhilarating experience.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2011/may/23/i-was-judge-at-cannes
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