Red carpets look so glamorous, don’t they? Stars sweeping past with smiles that radiate charm, talent, and that unmistakeable air of being one of life’s winners. Flashing bulbs and designer togs. What the cameras don’t show is what’s on the other side of that velvet rope: a scuffling, sweaty bunch of what some would no doubt term a prime example of life’s losers. The press scrum.
If it’s not already painfully clear, this is the side of the rope I was stuck on at the red carpet during last week’s Abu Dhabi Film Festival opening ceremony. We – the writers, radio bods, photographers, videographers – were packed tighter than teenyboppers on the front row of a Justin Bieber concert, but instead of unbridled joy on our faces there was little but sour competition.
There’s a window of about 30 seconds when the A-listers will float by in a fragrant haze of celebrity, and that’s as much time as you’ve got to get their attention. Who will get a cheeky wink from Clive? Who will persuade Uma to step towards this seething, desperate bunch and answer questions? And, terrifyingly, who will have to go back to the office tomorrow and admit that they were in the loo and missed Julianne?
So there I was, wedged cheek-to-cheek between a reporter with elbows of broken glass, and a photographer who seemingly wouldn’t recognise a toothbrush if it danced up to him singing the Aquafresh jingle. I’d been waiting there for almost two hours, watching the C-listers go by, clinging on to my place at the front of the scrum and smiling pathetically at the security guard to make sure he let me keep it, with just one mission for the evening: get a quote from Adrien Brody.
Finally, the doors swung open, letting in a wave of sound from assembled screaming fans outside, and there he was. Adrien Brody sauntered slowly down the carpet, wearing a jaunty trilby and looking mischievous and surprisingly hot for a man I’ve never found attractive. ‘Adrien!’ I shouted. ‘Time Out! Over here! Adrien!’ Amazingly, he looked over, smiled and took a few steps towards me. Unfortunately, he didn’t come close enough, as the next few minutes were an inexplicable, excruciating miscommunication bellowed over the din of the rest of the hall.
It went something like this: ‘Which films are you looking forward to seeing at the festival?’
‘Mine, of course!’
‘Sure, but how about the OTHERS?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Which FILMS are you planning to WATCH?’
‘That’s not a very fair question.’
‘SORRY?’
’You can’t ask me that!’
‘What? I SAID…’
A flicker of annoyance passed over his face and we stared at each other for a split second in an agony of confusion. Agonising for me, but of course just simply rather inconvenient for him to be caught in a conversational cul-de-sac in front of the cameras. So he smoothly sailed off to the next mic and began waxing lyrical about the desert and falcons and Abu Dhabi sunsets. It was all over.
Adrien, if you’re reading, I’m sure you don’t remember our exchange, and I don’t know what you thought I asked you, but, if you do, I’d just like to set the record straight. All I ever wanted to tell you was: ‘I like your hat.’
