Louis Allred Jr.'s Story-
www.enriquezthewaterbottle.com
Yes, two weeks ago, I left this great country of ours and landed in the epicenter
of cinematic self-flagellation - Cannes, France - to attend the Cannes
Film Festival with Troma Entertainment.
Now, you're probably saying to yourself, "Fred (no one seems to remember
my name....), you must have many stories of debauchery and immorality, tales
that would chill the bone and make even the most hardened Marine weep because
of their total lack of Christian family values."
Well, I don't know if they're all that bizarre, but I had quite a bit of fun,
and have some decent tales to tell.
First, let me say that I didn't see all too many films there. To get into many
of the screenings of anything worth a damn, you had to be either a buyer or
an executive - someone worth
a shit - and give really good fellatio - I mean, $1000 per hour good - all
while wearing a tuxedo. And if you know anything about tuxedos, come stains
are a pain in the ass to get dry-cleaned. I actually only saw three films: Citizen
Toxie: Toxic Avenger IV (from Troma, quite funny), Medley
(another Troma film), and the new Coen Bros. work, The Man Who Wasn't There
(see it when it hits screens later this year). Aside from that, all I could
do was deal with the bunch of psychos with whom I was cooped up.
Some names (and pictures will come):
| Doug: Head of production at Troma New York, this guy is about as crazy as they get (but he's still good people). When I arrived in France, he greeted me wearing a wifebeater covered in fake blood. I heard later that he had had this same shirt on for at least a couple of days. That night, he was prancing around the Petit Majestic (a rather popular bar behind the Grand Hotel in Cannes) pretending to be hit by cars. After that, he also got banned by the Carlton Hotel (where Troma's office was) twice, and he got thrown out of the Moving Pictures party for covering himself in fake blood and raving half-nude. I think I'll get him a "Fuck Tom Green" shirt. |
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| Tupac: Actually, his real name is Darren, and by day, he's a mild-mannered British bloke who's nice to all the folks. But by night, after a having a few, he becomes... the French reincarnation of Tupac Shakur!! Try to imagine this guy (an again, pictures will be up ASAP) running around screaming "I kick three Glocks up your fucking ass!!" It's difficult to do, I know, but I'm not making this up. |
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Rob: Big jock-looking dude (but
let that not be held against him, he's a cool guy) who, when he got drunk,
said the wackiest shit. Everything from becoming a marijuana-based mutant
to shooting people into the sun and fooling everyone else into thinking
they're on the moon. Hours of this - I wish I brought a mini-tape recorder.
Dammit. |
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Dan: Another Brit, he had a long-running feud with this crazy old Italian man who was generally scaring everyone (this included putting a bullhorn to the old man's face and screaming, "Get the fuck away from us!! No one likes you!!"). He also had two projects in the works: a humorous animated series based on the writings of William Burroughs, and a pitch he came up with while drunk called Skinhead in My Bed (and to keep from offending any B'Nai Brith or NAACP folk out there, I'll just leave it at that).
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 Remember to always clean the rug before you munch on it.. |
And there's so many other great people I stayed
with: Travis, Vince, Scott, Venetia, Louisa, John, Paolo, Eddie, Phil, Reuben,
James, Dave, Jen (both of them), and others whose names I've sadly forgotten. And for all the crap I saw going on there, there were things I wasn't privy to, namely some fights, and a now-legendary S&M night involving a studded belt, a pin, some over-Germanism, and some surprising revelations about certain people's personalities (and this makes sense only to those who were in France, but I can't really tell the story, I wasn't there). Another random guy also got a wooden bat stuck up his ass; again, I wasn't there. Try seeing some films while all this shit is going on. This is better than anything David Lynch or Baz Luhrmann could envision. |
What was great about France? Well, the money system there is one thing. Everything
I dealt with was either in francs or half-francs; no dicking around with pennies
here. Also, no tax. Of course, one had a lot of coins in his pocket, but I still
appreciated the no-nonsense attitude about the money. If it says fifteen francs,
it's fifteen fucking francs!
The women there are also great. Sure, I'd never have a shot with any of them
(firstly, 'cause I'm American, secondly, 'cause I'm me), but I must say that
their national average is a good notch above ours. If our average girls are
about a 5 out of 10, theirs are about a 7. Vive le France!!
What was rather dumb about France? Frankly, all their stupid fucking cars. I
thought we had some ugly shit here, but god, they have some cramped, boxy little
numbers there. Some of the cars there looked like someone cut an Astrovan into
thirds and painted it bright green. I see now where some domestic companies
get their automotive design inspiration, and they need to stop. Or maybe they're
copying us... badly.
So, to summarize: I didn't see too many films, and the only people I met were
of my own kind, so I made no connections. Actually, I felt kind of naked without
a proposal or treatment of some kind (granted I could never match the genius
of a Lincoln 2190 or a Minkey PI). I could have whipped something up based on
my roommate's idea, Seduction by Suction, but I had no access to Microsoft Word,
so there went that plan. But I did have a ball there, even though I got no sleep,
and what sleep I got was on the floor of a shithole positioned above a falafel
stand; though the last couple nights, I did sleep next to an attractive Brit...
and then his friend Venetia arrived, and she was rather attractive as well,
so that was a bonus. Unlike most others on the trip, I got no action, not even
a quick handjob from some desperate tourist needing cab fare.
Despite that, though, it was a very worthwhile trip, worth even the 12-hour
overnight layover in Paris' De Gaulle Airport, where nothing was open, and I
was rather afraid, mostly that someone would sneak some coke into my bags in
an attempt to have me unwittingly pack-mule it to the states, threatening my
family if I didn't comply. It's a special kind of anxiety being by yourself
in a practically abandoned terminal in a foreign country whose language you
don't speak. I occasionally played the hypothetical "Louis-gets-kidnapped-by-crazed-French-white-slavers"
episode in my mind in an attempt to lull me to sleep. Yes, even past all that,
I still found it to be an amazing trip, and I have no one else to thank but
my family (for funding the expedition) and all the folks with whom I stayed.
Thanks for keeping me away from home for a week.
Louis
