Greetings from the cavernous, marble-clad press room of the Venice Film Festival. After a more-frenzied-than-average day’s travelling (thanks to a domino set of transport delays resulting in the kind of mad airport dash usually reserved for rom-com heroes only), I have arrived in Venice in more or less one piece — and if ever a city was designed to melt away the stresses of a rough transit, it’s this one.
Even in sticky September heat, it’s as unremittingly, broodingly lovely as every postcard, photograph or film scene has ever suggested — as I navigated the shady labyrinth of criss-crossing bridges and canals to my hotel, it was hard not to expect a ghostly tyke in red to pop up a few paces ahead. Or Dirk Bogarde in a Panama hat. At least Helena Bonham-Carter in a carnival mask. But no. Such are the mild letdowns of initially meeting cities through the movies.
It’s funny how strong festival buzz can be frozen indefinitely as a film jumps through the increasingly complicated hoops of securing distribution — only to be thawed and reheated later. Such looks to be the case with Richard Linklater’s latest, “Me and Orson Welles” — or, to be more specific, its breakout star Christian McKay.
At the crack of dawn, I board a flight to Italy — so this time tomorrow, if all goes well, I’ll be writing to you from the water-riven city of Venice after having attended a festival screening of John Hillcoat’s “The Road.” It’s both my first visit to the city and my first taste of one of the major film festivals, so it should be an exciting few days all round.
Thanks to regular commenter Jonathan for alerting us to the news that The Netherlands has
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