After 10 days of being pushed, prodded and poked by the world's hordes of paparazzi at the Cannes Film Festival in their spittle-flecked enthusiasm to get a picture of Angelina or Brad or Benicio, the essential plot of Wim Wenders's Palermo Shooting, with a famous photographer on the run for his life and re-assessing his career in Palermo, Italy, sounded like what could be the feel-good film of the festival. I hate paparazzi with a passion; they hog all the power outlets in the Cannes press room, they shove and shout and scream at people in order to get them to look at them so they might thereby increase the saleability of their shot, and, most damningly here at Cannes, they're both annoyingly innumerable and wildly irrelevant. (I know I'm biased, but I see it this way: I can read two reviews of the same film and learn something different from each, get a entirely separate set of insights from each writer, learn any number of things and have any number of ideas raised. I can look at 800 different photographers' snapshots of Gwyneth Paltrow on the red carpet and they all say the same thing: Dahr, she purdy.)
categories Reviews, Cinematical