Today at the Cannes Film Festival, I committed an unintentional act of espionage: I accidentally promoted a movie. Allow me to explain.
I unwittingly arrived early for a luncheon at Hotel Barrière le Majestic Cannes, held to introduce 355, a spy film from Jessica Chastain and Simon Kinberg in development, to the press. In 2017, after serving on the Cannes jury, Chastain had delivered some pointed, and—to me—welcome remarks about how she found the depiction of women in the festivals competition lineup “quite disturbing.” Now the actress was back on the Croisette with a plan to do something about it: she had brought a concept for a female-driven James Bond–style film, in which she, Penélope Cruz, Marion Cotillard, Lupita Nyongo, and Fan Bingbing play spies from agencies around the world who form their own team, named 355. Simon Kinberg is set to direct the film, which Chastain said sprang from a meeting she had with her agent at Cannes last year about the paucity of female-driven action films in the marketplace.
Chastains Freckle Films, FilmNation Entertainment, and CAA have not shared a script with potential buyers. Instead, they sailed the actresses into the Majestics port on Thursday for a photo-call, delivered them to a ballroom at the hotel, and let them speak directly to distributors—and, unintentionally, to me.
But first, a word about Cannes schedules, which seem to befuddle this hapless, jetlagged American journalist. Theyre given in French, in military time, in delicate, swirly fonts. Just yesterday I arrived at the festival “Rendezvous with Ryan Coogler,” delighted to see no line—and learned I was 24 hours early.
Today at the Majestic, I was apparently once again in the right place at the wrong time. I arrived for what I thought was a press event—wearing my credentials, as one does at Cannes, even at non-credentialed events such as this. When I identified myself to the efficient ladies working the door, and learned I was not on the list, I tilted my head like a confused dog. Exasperated, perhaps, they waved me in. I didnt see any journalists I knew, just some familiar executives. “I must be special!” I thought to myself.
At the front of the room was a long table with microphones, set up just like the official Cannes Film Festival press conferences. During the brief presentation, I learned intriguing details about the so-far top-secret movie—like that Chastain and Cotillard have a fight scene on motorcycles, and that Nyongo plays a character akin to Q in the James Bond films, the gadget-happy head of the British Secret Services research and development division. “I have never seen an African woman intelligence agent,” Nyongo said. “To me, that was important because I know they exist. What she uses to her advantage is peoples underestimating her.” Cruz spoke about Chastains stewardship of the project, and how she had enlisted the actresses from around the world. “I said to Jessica, You are our Santa Claus,” Cruz said. “It is very emotional to be part of the project.”
This film sounds promising, I thought as I sat wearing my press badge, merrily tweeting the actresss comments using the official film hashtag #355Movie. Thats when I got a firm tap on my shoulder from a British security officer in an impeccably tailored suit. “Ive been asked to remove you,” he said, politely.
Again I enlisted the tilted dog head, but my confusion was real. I showed him the confirmation e-mail on my phone. “Thats next door. Youre early. There is supposed to be no press in here. I was told someone is tweeting.” Now, I am no female James Bond, but if I were to attempt to sneak into a top-secret event, I would not do it wearing my press badge and I would not tweet from the event using its official hashtag.
Within moments, I was out of the Majestic. After speaking to distributors, Chastain was guided out to the hotel pool area for the luncheon I was supposed to attend—where she did not speak to reporters, I am told, by the frustrated ones texting me.
Additional reporting by Julie Miller.
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Rebecca KeeganRebecca Keegan is a Hollywood Correspondent for Vanity Fair.
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