It's that time of the year again! Time for major movie players and internationally acclaimed cleavage to converge upon the shores of the French Riviera, in a more raucuous version of an annual actuarial convention.
The festivalgoers come in all shapes and sizes, from the Japanese kid with trouser braces to French actress Yolande Moreau (who would probably regard this book and this book to be utter nonsense and promptly consume them for breakfast washed down with a glass of chilled white wine).
I've found that the Cannes Film Festival has certainly matured and developed over the years, much like Soon-Yi Previn Allen (who now looks just like Woody's daughter instead of granddaughter). There's a touch of class now, which is increasingly evident in the standards of dress.
While Paris Hilton hasn't quite learnt how to keep her legs closed, at least she is mostly covered up and the unclear lighting allow us some glimmer of hope that she may in fact be wearing underwear. Maybe next time, they'll raise the standards by not inviting her at all.
It hasn't always been this tasteful at Cannes though. In 2001, it was still socially acceptable to mix one's diamonds, beret and racerback unitard.
In fact, this laissez-faire approach to red carpet fashion was out of control. Famous people were putting on things that would have sparked an outrage in their home country:
It is the fashion equivalent of watching a menage-a-trois involving Quentin Tarantino. No marriage could possibly have survived such a disaster.
Well that was then and this is now. So enjoy the rest of the festival and "You Stay Classy, Cannes".