Today’s piped-in soundtrack at the Palais restrooms: the theme music to “Lawrence of Arabia,” and, shortly thereafter, “Carmina Burana.”
The only thing missing was the movie trailer voiceover guy intoning, “Let your bladder take you on an epic adventure.”

There are two lines that seperate the elite from the hoi polloi along the Croissette. I’ve mentioned the metaphorical line represented by the presence of a festival badge around the neck. There is also a literal line–a rope fence running in front of the national pavilions, with the badge-wearing sneeches on one side and the plain ones on the other.
On Wednesday, as I was walking along the elite, national-pavillion side of the line, two young boys leaned over and gestured for my attention. “Bradpeet?” one of them said.
Seeing my confusion, he repeated himself: “Brad Peet? He weel be here tonight?”
It’s true that the powers granted by my Cannes badge are nearly limitless. But, alas, a complete knowledge of the current and future whereabouts of Brad Pitt falls squarely within the few limits there are. I told him, apologetically, I didn’t know.

In the bathrooms at the Palais, speakers mounted in the ceiling pipe in classic movie music while you go about your business. Thus far, I’ve heard “Can You Feel The Love Tonight?” and an orchestral version of “My Heart Will Go On,” as well as Darth Vader’s Theme. While the first two didn’t do much for me, the last one undeniably added a majestic feeling of dignity to the act of using a urinal.

I’m back in the UK Film Centre. Apparently, an actor named Tony Resta has been using this computer before me, since he’s set Explorer to automatically launch his CV and headshot when opening a new window. Cheeky, Tony. Very cheeky.

The German pavilion has a much faster Internet connection than the UK Film Centre. The only problem is that the Z and Y keys are reversed on the German keyboard. If I make anz strange tzpos, zou’ll know whz.
More impressions:
One of my first purchases in Cannes was a black bowtie. I lost mine some time ago, and I gather that if you show up to a Gala Premiere in the Palais de Cinema without a black tie, you won’t be admitted. Apparently, in response to this, there are enterprising local residents hanging outside the Palais in the evenings, selling black ties for up to 100 Euros apiece.
My one celebrity sighting thus far has been Jason Schwartzman, straightening his tie in the bathroom of the Majestic Hotel shortly before the official Cannes screening of Marie Antoinette. His tie, I noted, was a straight tie, not a bowtie. I wondered if he would be ejected from his own premiere.

I’m once again in the UK Film Centre on the beach at Cannes.
I’ve just written up a lengthy addition to my Cannes journal, butit suddenly vanished, replaced by a helpful notice from Internet Explorer that the form I was using had expired, and therefore, as a security precaution, it was throwing out everything I had entered into it. Argh!
And now I must go and shmooze. More entries when I have the chance, or when I am back home and safely on a non-crappy OS.