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There are possibly only two reasons for the fact that I am one of the world's most hopelessly devoted film buffs. Firstly, my mum's Vanity Fair subscription, which kept my elbows-deep in Hollywood drama from the ages of twelve to sixteen. And secondly, the Cannes Film Festival. Teen Vogue used to cover it in the breathless way that only Teen Vogue can ("Kirsten Dunst, her honey locks back to strawberry as she films the latest installment of Spiderman, was every-inch the Sofia Coppola heroine in a backless pistachio satin sheath dress at the premiere of Marie Antoinette!"), and for a teenager that's pretty powerful stuff. There was always a cinderella moment, a belle of the ball (Diane Kruger in that mercury dress!), a class clown, a European up-and-comer (Cannes is, after all, where the world first met Brigitte Bardot) and the hangers on in haute couture. There's something about the excess and the elegance of throwing together world-famous stars and world-famous supermodels and world-famous beautiful people in one gloriously naff Riviera setting and pressing play. You never know what's going to happen. All you know is that the men have to be in tuxedos, even the paparazzi. My life dream is to go to Cannes one day. Until then, well, this year's festival starts today.
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