Where's George Clooney?

George Clooney at the Venice Film Festival

There comes a time when even the most dedicated film critic cannot bear to see the sixth film of the day. We are human too ( although perhaps some actors and film-makers would argue otherwise ) therefore we need to close our laptops, stop seeking a sub-plot and let our hair down.

The biggest disco of the Lido – here at the Venice Film Festival - is Pachuka,  miles away from the festival and hosts parties that have nothing to do with it.
But stars , directors and film industry folk organize their parties at Nikki Beach, a temporary tent right in front of the Casinò, or at The Pool, another short-term disco-bar in the garden of the Excelsior Hotel.

Both places are elegant, sleek and overlook the sea; the music usually mixes techno and house, with exceptions like revival nights dedicated to the hits of the ‘70s and ‘80s.

Until last year, the main problem with these parties was the price: at Nikki Beach last year a bottle of beer was a staggering nine euros.
This year there is plenty of free drink cards to get booze, but the problem is more radical – where is the booze?

At The Pool during the day you can have free beer in small glasses (a quarter of pint, ridiculous), but at 7 o’clock the curtain falls on the beer stall and you are left with two alternatives: vodka and Red Bull or Campari and Red Bull.
Of course Red Bull is the sponsor of the place, but if by chance you don’t like it, you’d better move on.
Or drink straight vodka.

At the Revival party, on Wednesday night, people seemed not to notice the lack of drinks and kept dancing to YMCA as if they had never heard it before.

But this is nothing compared to the Press Office party held on Thursday evening at Blue Moon, a big bar on the beach.
At half past ten, there was no more food in sight; at eleven, no booze; at ten past the waiters were clearing up.
A live band played rock standards and a waiter told me they would sell drinks for five euros,  but the atmosphere was that of a  boardroom meeting.

And there was I thinking that the Venice Film Festival was the right place to dance on tables, surrounded by cheering A-listers where the drinks flowed and the food and frolics kept on coming. Not so.

And talking of stars – where were they? The only celeb I saw was Italian actor Luigi Lo Cascio:  an excellent actor indeed, but  I was holding out for George Clooney – at least.
The only opportunity to have a nice Italian meal, excellent wine and a relaxed chat with producers and industry workers are the receptions organized by Italian regions or the cultural association: the Villa Degli Autori (villa of the authors), next to the Excelsior.

It is an elegant and professional space where talks and lectures no one really listens to are followed by rich buffets and drinks at a low price. No dancing, mind.

So, what is left for us poor critics who want to enjoy some wild Venetian  nights?
Instead of going to the dull shindigs, we loiter in the small bars outside the Palazzo Del Cinema with friends and boyfriends, sipping a spritz ( a typical Venetian drink made with white wine, Campari and orange) and chitty-chatting until very late.
Not so fashionable, perhaps, but  plenty of bonhomie and animated discussions over sub-plots.

But time's running out to dance the night away with Mr Clooney.

Vera Brozzoni

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