We’ve said it before and we’ll say it again: the Cannes Film Festival always seems to turn up some of the best style moments.
And the latest example happened just over the weekend…
Kempt Man of the Hour, James McAvoy, please take a bow.
This is exactly how you Cannes-ify a three-piece suit—the one in question here is a Burberry number: keep the look buttoned-up until you hit the collar and ditch the tie. A Mediterranean backdrop and a starlet on your arm also helps.
The last time we checked in on stylishness returning to the big screen, our list of this year’s crop of promising movies ended with The Master. All we had was a short teaser then—director Paul Thomas Anderson has been patently tight-lipped about the film—but the trailer has finally been released. (All part of a calculated media rollout, which began in Cannes last year when a shadowy poster appeared with only the words “Untitled Paul Thomas Anderson Project” on it.) We finally get to see Philip Seymour Hoffman in all of his L. Ron Hubbard-ness, donning a navy double-breasted blazer and addressing a yet-to-be-revealed audience. It’s all very intriguing and creepy at the same time—especially with everyone dressed in dusty ’50s-era high-waisted slacks.
With the gaze of the fashion set firmly locked on Cannes this week, everyone missed the blaze of dapperness happening just a yacht-ride away in Athens. The Brits sent over aging firebrand David Beckham to light the Olympic torch for London 2012 and bring it home for the ceremonial torch relay across the hosting country. If there’s one thing we’ve always known about the guy: he cleans up well. But this goes beyond that, with the navy kit, contrast spread collar, pocket square and tie clip—a smart move when dealing with an open flame. It came together so well, he was mistakenly introduced as “Sir” more than once.
We would have also accepted the tucked tie in this situation.
Cannes opened its annual week of pomp and circumstance with a screening of Moonrise Kingdom. And it was as if everything fell into place perfectly. The calculated whimsy, pitch-perfect weather, Bill Murray acting a fool while Wes Anderson et al watched in bemused exasperation. And it all captured the essence of what Cannes is: beautiful people, dressing well, having fun. They nailed it. All of ’em. Together. Joe Cool Willis cracking a smile, Murray being the wily old codger he is, juxtaposed with the buttoned-up Anderson, and to finish: a surprisingly stylish Norton (he really ties the room together). Way to set the tone for the week to come, fellas. Bravo.
After disappearing late last week without a peep, our intrepid editorial director Randy Goldberg finally resurfaced—telling stories of the Riviera and a close encounter with Sir Robert DeNiro. Of what really went on there, we have only this record…
When our friends at Stella Artois asked if I had a couple of days to drop by Cannes, bunk down at Chez Jacques at the near-perfect Carlton Hotel, help close out the Festival and generally use the word Riviera as a verb, I obliged. I brought a tuxedo, a pair of trunks and an appetite for le destruction.
As for what I found there, all the rumors are true: yachts made of solid gold, an endless fountain of truly mesmerizing creatures, gala-side dealmaking, Chanel breezes, 30-euro cocktails, le Palm D’Or, flashbulb sunburns, method acting during hotel lobby brawls (that would be Mr. Gosling), enough rose to drown a desperate housewife, and, of course, the gracious hospitality of Jacques D’Azur.
The path from “respected actor” to “movie star” is an elusive, magical thing. But dressing to kill at Cannes is a pretty good first step.
We know, he’s been getting a lot of love around these parts, but this trifecta of handsomeness was too good to pass up. The two colorful tuxes are brilliant—each one catching eyes without seeming too prom-worthy—but our favorite is the Schnabel-esque getup on the right. The tropical white pants and blue spectators are both pitch-perfect formal daywear, and the untucked pajama-shirt is the stuff lookbooks are made of.
If he keeps this up, he may be headed for icon territory.
This week, John C. Reilly faced two immutable, contradictory truths.
First, Cannes is very glamorous. Second, Cannes is very hot.
His solution takes a page from southern style. He arrived at the 64th Cannes Film Festival wearing a pair of shortwing spectators, a featherweight suit and a panama hat—a throwback, to be sure.
It’s the kind of thing you could imagine Chaplin wearing on his day off, but for a half-comic actor like Reilly, it’s the perfect reminder that he isn’t just appearing in Scottish psychodramas all day.
In other words, it’s the best possible way to dress like a clown. As it turns out, French cinephiles have a soft spot for them.
A man always looks better in his element—in this case, a director at Cannes—but Pedro Almodóvar doesn’t really need the help. Without a movie in the fest, he apparently directed all of his energy towards finding the perfect pair of sunglasses, and a bowtie to match. It paid off. Unlike just about everyone on the red carpet, he actually dressed for the weather—and all without sacrificing any New Formality points.
The Cannes Film Festival kicks off today, and while we aren’t much for the industry roundup, one flick in particular has caught our eye. Mostly thanks to the poster.
The film is Tournée (On Tour in English), and the gentleman behind the lady’s knees is Matthew Amalric, the French actor who directed the film and took its juiciest role, as an impoverished burlesque manager shepherding a troupe of American dancers through a tour of the ports of France. You might remember him from Diving Bell and the Butterfly or, more likely, as the bad guy in the latest Bond flick, but apparently he’s moved on to tales even more exciting than the life of a fashion photographer. Here’s hoping this one gets a tour of its own.
This is shaping up to be a banner year for one of our favorite women in the world: Danish model/artist/actress/director Rie Rasmussen. The likes of *GQ* can keep their Jennifer Anistons and Jessica Biels; here at Kempt we go for brainy, over-achieving beauties in the Carla Bruni mold rather than the mindless meat puppets of prime time (but we digress).
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