This year's Cannes Film Festival opened on May 11.
On May 9, Simon and his party departed Los Angeles aboard the newly delivered Gulfstream IV, stopping first in New York before flying directly to Cannes.
As Gulfstream's latest long-range business jet, the G-IV offered a range of 7,800 kilometers—more than enough for the roughly 6,000-kilometer transatlantic leg.
Though certified for twenty passengers, the cabin provided only twelve seats.
Simon, Janet, and Jennifer claimed three. Orion Pictures president Mike Medavoy joined them, along with Robert De Niro, John Travolta, Nicole Kidman, Samuel L. Jackson, Madonna, and Sean Penn—lead and supporting cast alike. Once everyone boarded, the cabin was full, possible only because bodyguards Neil Bennett and Ken Dixon doubled as pilots. All other entourage members traveled commercial.
France was nine hours ahead of the West Coast. Departing Los Angeles at ten in the morning, after eleven hours in the air they touched down in Cannes just past six on the morning of May 10.
Cannes Airport.
The hierarchy became immediately apparent as they disembarked. Established stars De Niro and Travolta each had confirmed stays at friends' local villas; Madonna and her husband had rented an apartment. The rest followed Medavoy to the hotel Orion had booked.
Simon, naturally, was not reduced to sharing a hotel.
After agreeing to meet that evening, Simon's group drove northeast to Le Cannet. Half an hour later the car wound through narrow, tree-lined mountain roads before turning through gates atop the hill.
Stepping out, Simon walked to the southern edge of the courtyard. Gazing over the unobstructed view of Cannes and the distant bay beyond, he said involuntarily, "I love this place."
Janet joined him. "It's a lot like our Palisades house—only bigger. One and a half hectares, more than three times the size."
As they spoke, a brown-haired woman in a light-gray business suit approached carrying a folder. Smiling, she introduced herself in fluent English. "Mr. Westeros, Miss Johnston—hello. I'm Sophia Fessi. Would you like a tour?"
Sophia Fessi was Simon's local real-estate agent.
The purchase had closed before he and Janet arrived; Simon already knew the property details intimately. Still, he nodded. "Yes, please."
"This way," Sophia said, gesturing invitingly and falling in beside him as they headed toward the main house. She indicated the entrance villa. "This is the guest annex—for security and staff. The previous owner, Mr. Brent, was exceptionally generous to employees, so the annex is quite refined. We'll go straight to the main villa. It covers eighteen thousand square feet over three floors—sixty-nine rooms total: sixteen bedrooms, twenty-two bathrooms, three kitchens, plus library, gym, screening room—everything. Oh, and a very spacious basement originally designed as a wine cellar…"
After eleven continuous hours of flying, Simon and Janet were exhausted. They let Sophia finish a brief overview before dismissing her.
Separated by an ocean, Simon could not furnish the hilltop estate as casually as his Los Angeles properties. He had only asked Sophia to replace all bedding, linens, and sofa covers in advance; everything else remained untouched for now.
Finding a nearby restaurant's number in the materials Sophia left, they ordered breakfast. Sending Neil, Ken, and Jennifer off to explore, Simon and Janet retreated to the third-floor master suite.
After showering, Simon emerged in a robe. The morning light on the terrace outside the bedroom had grown bright; suddenly he no longer felt sleepy and walked straight out.
Leaning on the railing, he looked down. The estate's architecture was classic Spanish—red-tiled roofs, white walls, columns, fountains. Though he had no particular fondness for the style, the moment he had seen the Los Angeles listing he had decided to buy.
The location was simply perfect. The original owner would never have sold willingly unless forced; the property was certain to appreciate.
Moreover, the asking price of thirty-five million francs—given the steady depreciation of European currencies over the past two years—converted to just over five million dollars. When Simon offered cash, the seller rounded down, and they closed at exactly five million.
Cannes real estate still lagged far behind Los Angeles, but for triple the land, a castle-like villa, and this unparalleled hilltop vista, five million struck Simon as an absolute bargain.
Janet emerged and slipped her arm through his, following his gaze. "What is it?"
Simon's hand settled on her slim waist, stroking idly. "I just pictured bodyguards in sunglasses holding submachine guns down in the courtyard—straight out of a movie. I'd definitely be the drug kingpin."
"Drug trafficking is exhausting—and nowhere near as lucrative as my man." Janet rubbed her cheek against him, smiling. "Though those scenes always need a couple of pretty arm candies. Should I call Kidman over? You cast her as the female lead—you've probably been coveting her for ages."
Simon shook his head. "No."
Janet clearly did not believe him; she wrinkled her nose and huffed.
Simon laughed, scooped her up, and carried her back inside. "Fine—even if I did before, I don't now."
Janet looked puzzled. "Why?"
He deposited her gently on the bed and drew the curtains. "Last time I worked out a math problem for Ron Macmillan. Afterward I suddenly found myself far less interested in women."
Janet rolled onto her stomach seductively, propping herself up and swinging her pretty bare feet like a certain Pulp Fiction poster. "What math problem?"
Simon sat beside her and shook his head. "Nothing. Better not tell you—you'd accuse me of objectifying women."
Janet blinked, then scooted closer. "You mean feminism? I'm no feminist."
Simon pulled her into his arms. "So you're a masculinist?"
"Why not? I am a masculinist."
His hand slid inside her thin robe, exploring until she narrowed her eyes like a contented cat. Only then did he smile. "Confirmed—you can't possibly be a masculinist."
Janet caught his retreating hand and murmured, "Who says masculinists have to be men?"
Simon recalled plenty of men who called themselves feminists and conceded, "Fair point."
Janet's eyes snapped open again. "You almost distracted me—what was the math problem?"
"Still not telling."
"Fine." She let it go, then added, "But you're making Nicole Kidman famous. If you don't want her, someone else will get her."
Simon pinched her nose lightly. "Are you sure you're not just looking for an excuse to bite me?"
Janet promptly bared small white teeth and nipped his shoulder. "I never need an excuse to bite you."
Simon understood why she had bitten him that night after the Oscars. Some feminine sixth sense had likely warned her that Sandra posed a threat.
Clearly, Janet felt no such concern about Catherine or Jennifer.
Thinking it over, he supposed she was right.
Age made a future with Katherine unlikely. As for Jennifer—Janet saw his assistant as no threat at all.
The thoughts passed; Simon simply patted her waist. "Sleep. We have plans tonight."
Janet murmured agreement, adjusted into a more comfortable position against him, and soon closed her eyes.
They woke late in the afternoon when Jennifer knocked.
The opening ceremony was tomorrow; Simon's schedule began tonight with a Hollywood gathering. After a quick wash, he and Janet headed into Cannes to a hotel.
The party was about to start. As they entered the banquet hall, Robert Redford—standing nearby chatting—approached.
Redford's role in Pulp Fiction was essentially a cameo; given his stature he had no obligation to attend Cannes. He had come instead for his own directorial effort, The Milagro Beanfield War.
It was Redford's second film as director.
Compared to his acclaimed and commercially successful debut eight years earlier, Ordinary People, the adaptation—about a New Mexico farmer fighting developers over water rights—had received lukewarm notices.
Universal had released it mid-March; nearly two months later it had grossed just over eight million against a twenty-two-million budget. Domestic losses were already certain.
To offset them, Universal entered it at Cannes for non-competition screening to boost European distribution. Redford dutifully led the delegation to promote.
Long accustomed to Hollywood's ups and downs, he appeared unaffected by the failure. After warm greetings he said, "Simon, perfect timing—I was just about to introduce you."
He led Simon and Janet to his previous companion. "William, this is Simon. Simon, William Goldman."
Simon smiled and shook hands. "Mr. Goldman."
The silver-haired screenwriter in his sixties wore a light-gray plaid shirt. His expression seemed serious, but he proved warm and talkative. "Hello, Simon. Bob's mentioned you more than once. When we're back in L.A., we should get together."
"Absolutely," Simon agreed, then introduced, "This is my girlfriend, Jenny."
Goldman shook Janet's hand. They chatted idly about Hollywood gossip, carefully avoiding the festival itself.
Yet Simon recognized he now owed Redford another favor.
William Goldman was a legendary screenwriter—author of the script that launched Redford, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. He had remained an A-list writer ever since.
That alone might not warrant special gratitude.
But Goldman was also one of the ten jury members this year. Compared to the Academy, Cannes awards—driven by strong personal tastes—were far less predictable.
In many years before and after, Cannes results often diverged sharply from critical consensus: universally praised films left empty-handed; lesser-regarded ones pulled surprises.
No one believed such outcomes were entirely free of external influence.
In the original timeline Pulp Fiction had upset heavily favored films like Kieślowski's Red and Zhang Yimou's To Live to win the Palme d'Or—due in no small part to jury president Clint Eastwood.
Thus, even knowing Pulp Fiction's quality gave it a strong shot, Simon had no illusions about winning without effort.
He had already studied the twenty-one competing films.
This year's slate was, frankly, mediocre. Apart from Pulp Fiction, he recalled no standout titles. Compared to the powerhouse 1994 lineup, his film's relative strength was actually greater.
Still, lobbying remained essential.
After chatting patiently with Goldman, Simon soon spotted his next target at the party.
George Miller.
At last month's post-Oscar gathering Simon had met the director who rose to fame with the Mad Max series. He had not expected Miller to appear on this year's jury list.
Simon had no deep personal connection with Miller.
But Miller was Australian.
Thanks to Janet, Simon possessed a natural affinity with the Australian contingent.