The film is sweet and uplifting, and we notice one young woman outside the theatre still wearing her 3-D glasses in the hallway, as if reluctant to give up the charm. But then we proceed directly to a moment of hard truth.
"Saving Luna" is about to get the first of what will eventually be two showings during the course of the festival, in a little theatre behind the many booths of sales people. This is our big moment. This is one of the main reasons we have come to Cannes, to show the film to international distributors.
The theatre has about 60 seats. We hope for ten or fifteen distributors, but our film, like most, shows itself best before a real audience of a lot more, because it's funny and needs a laugh track. So we go outside to mingle with the crowds in front of the Palais, in a bizarre exercise in audience stuffing, and try to give tickets away.
It's awful. We cruise through the crowd listening for spoken English, because we have no subtitles on the film. We feel like con artists or stalkers, and when we talk to one man and woman they think we're trying to scalp the tickets. "No, no! they're free, they're free!" They turn us down, still suspicious. A young Italian woman seems interested, but her charming father doesn't want to sit through 90 minutes he won't understand. Finally we give it up, sit on a wall and just watch the crowds, defeated. Maybe we can accept some crassness in ourselves, but this is just too much.
We go in. "Saving Luna" is about to start. But there are not 15 distributors here to see it. There are not ten. There are two. The little theater is almost empty. Oh, no!
We sit through the film. About seven more people come and go. We have been warned that screenings are often almost empty, and our agent has said that most of his contacts will be looking at the film on DVD. But this? Ouch! Gloom washes over us. I watch the film with jaundiced eyes, seeing new problems in the structure, the editing, the words.
But then something happens. When the film ends, one of the two people left in the theater simply smiles at us and leaves. But the other stays. He stays in his seat as the credits roll and as the screen goes dark. When the lights come up, he still sits there. I walk down to talk to him, and he looks up, tears in his eyes. And he gives us a gift.
"That was one of the best documentaries I have ever seen," he says.
Oh! How can I still feel bereft? This is what filmmaking is all about, the building of that connection between one life and another across the space between screen and audience. All the time in Cannes I know our hearts will be pulled this way and that by love and money, but when something like this happens, you know where your loyalty lies. Money is just paper that gets you hardware, but moving one stranger to care about the little whale who meant so much to us is like lifting the sky.