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E. Nina Rothe

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The Diaries, because sometimes life needs more. 

The kind of beautiful women attending this year’s Festival de Cannes, as photographed at the Kering Women in Motion Awards dinner

The difference between us: Another Cannes Film Festival dispatch

E. Nina Rothe May 21, 2025

Never before did I notice such a gender divide and so much incredibly superfluous mansplaining as I did this year on the Croisette.

Within just a twenty-four hour span in time, the following conversations and encounters took place. If you think I’m exaggerating, well, I’m actually underplaying it so I don’t ruffle any feathers — or any more than I already have in my long, and very controversial life.

It’s a man’s world

At an informal get-together for Golden Globes voters, with a glass of rosé in hand, I introduced myself and my Lebanese journalist friend to a group gathered. “Hi I’m Nina,” I said extending my hand, to which a Brazilian colleague chimed in “what is your last name?” I took out my badge, which I usually hide in my purse when I walk around, for privacy reasons and joked “I try not to show it too much, I’m ashamed of the color.” In Cannes, anyone who doesn’t have a pink badge, or above, is considered a lesser person. It’s an awful concept, not available at any other festival around the world and honestly, the decision as to who gets one of the privileged badges and who doesn’t is as mysterious as a Christopher Nolan plotline. And it’s also very sexist, if you ask me. I know many more well-respected women journalists with blue badges like mine and a lot of over-the-hill male journos with pink, dotted with yellow on top. Pois should be illegal on men… Anyway, I think it must be a sensibility left over from the French Colonialist period, when those who lived in a country occupied by the other were treated as lesser beings. While I’ll never know true racism, with my white woman privilege, this makes me understand how it might feel, the irrationality of it all.

But wait, there’s more.

“What have you done wrong to get the kind of credentials bloggers get?” The Brazilian journo asked, with his right hand positioned inside his trousers, in the back. Not happy when I shrugged my shoulders — and BTW I am here with my blog, I said, he added “because you’re not so young.” OK, now that felt personal. I looked him square in the face and waited for him to dig himself out of that one. When he didn’t, and started mumbling something about how they were giving everyone credentials in Cannes these days, I moved on to a more interesting conversation.

After catching up with a favorite Indian woman journalist whose work I’ve loved a long time and who is now deservedly at the helm of a major trade publication in India, I became part of another conversation, this one involving a young Spanish male journo wearing a yellow badge, who professes to write for newspapers in Mexico, Colombia and more. If blue is lowly, then yellow is downright substandard in Cannes credential hierarchy, so am not sure I take his word for it. When one of the women who had organized the pleasant get-together by the beach asked me what my favorite titles were in Cannes this year, I told her my choices, including a Chilean film in Un Certain Regard, The Mysterious Gaze of the Flamingo, which deals with AIDS and being gay and trans in a completely new and unexpected way. Spanish journo guy, now wanting desperately to be part of the conversations: “Yeah, that’s the politically correct film to Eddington, which is on the opposite side of the spectrum and is not politically correct.” Surprised by his statement, I asked him, seriously, “have you watched the Chilean film?” He replied “no I haven’t.” And how do you know it’s politically correct, I thought? Which of course, it is a far cry from being, apart from obviously dealing with LGBTQ issues. “It’s woke, same thing,” he replied, dismissing my opinion and digging himself deeper into the hole of Nina disapproval, a surefire way to be cancelled — since we’re using this terminology — by yours truly. And when I insisted, firmly and seriously, that he needed to watch the film, he continued on stubbornly on his wrong/strong path to hopelessness. Perhaps sometimes the credentials color roulette works.

Sisters are doin’ it for themselves

Later on, at a lunch for a world-esteemed cinematic organization that has a few films in the Cannes official line-up this year, an equally fabulous director of an event I attend year after year and love, told me that she had been part of a panel the previous day where men, in the same positions as the one she occupies but in different organizations, had mansplained things to her. If you know her, and what she does — which I’m protecting with my life here — you’d understand the absurdity of mansplaining anything to her. She is so wonderfully smart and cool, I was in awe of our conversation.

Just as I was about to leave her side, to allow her some space to get something to eat (this was a lunch!) a journalist came over to elbow me away from her, so he could pitch her his film. Mind you, I know he’s been at it for as long as I’ve known him, this mythical film. In those early days, the Dubai International Film Festival still existed, that’s how long. And he was so drunk and slobbery as he came over to speak to her, I felt afraid to leave my new friend alone with him.

When I caught up with her again on my way out, I said “I should have saved you, but then noticed you were doing OK for yourself,” because we women have a code, we can tell when we’ve got it — can do it for ourselves, we don’t need woman-saving or womensplaining. And that’s when she said we should get together for lunch one day, which sent me off totally fan-girling.

Sad Songs

To wrap it all up with a nice bow, I attended a major event on Sunday night, right before the Wes Anderson red carpet premiere of The Phoenician Scheme, to which I held a coveted ticket. To go with the Middle Eastern theme of the evening, after all the Phoenicians were an ancient Semitic people who thrived in the eastern Mediterranean region, particularly in what is now Lebanon and Syria, the event was held by a cinematic organization based in the MENA region and everyone who is anyone in world cinema was there.

As I stood wearing my red carpet finest, complete with Isabel Marant’s very glam single diamond drop earring, chatting with a publicist friend, a couple who run a sales and distribution company specializing in films from/within the Arab world came in. The leading guy walked by almost ignoring me, while the graphics’ guy right behind him couldn’t resist putting his foot in his mouth, yet again. Mind you, I refer to their company, which rhymes with SAD Diffusions, as the place “where Arab cinema goes to die,” so the dig may have been intentional.

“You know you only have on one earring?” He said, with a look of concern/disgust. In the past, these same characters have been known to point me in the direction of the make up room, because, and I quote, “you need a touch up” meaning I wasn’t wearing enough eyeliner or eyebrows for their sensitivities; or have beckoned to me with a curled finger to point out that I was being rude by not saying hello to them up close. Yet these same guys have also advised the filmmaker of one of the best Arab films made in 2024 to avoid attending the Filmmakers’ Afternoon Teas at the BFI London Film Festival, in favor of doing a Q&A for her film when none was scheduled, meaning no moderator even showed up! And those teas at LFF are where most indie press meet the projects in the festival, so you get my drift.

When a male filmmaker, a friend who recently signed with them against all my warnings, started to realize what a shoddy organizations theirs is, he approached them to point it out. Their reply to him was “then why is everyone signing with us?” Perhaps because you’re the only ones in the MENA region, I would have pointed out, a personal cue to urge others to form some kind of competition and end this monopoly of mediocrity they have built around cinema in the Region. For the love of Arab cinema.

Epilogue

Last but not least, I wanted to refer to the beautiful women in the header image and assure you that even they aren’t exempt from silly men explaining how they should have dressed, didn’t dress like or what they should have worn as accessories. On a pretentious blog run by, you guessed it, two guys, they tore apart my girl Alba Rohrwacher because her Valentino dress was “juvenile and insipid, the tights are giving skin disease [vibe] and the shoes are glaringly wrong.” This is the woman who recognized me, after five years, at a screening for Pablo Larraín’s Maria in London and came up to me to hug me. So talk s*** about her and you’re on my cancelled list forever. And if someone knows fashion, it’s Alba. Always and forever, Alba.

The same “dudes” called Dakota Johnson’s Gucci dress “basic” and Isabelle Huppert’s gorgeous black lace Balenciaga gown “forgettable,” instead giving Nicole Kidman top marks for her red lace Balenciaga gown. Go figure.

Anyway, just wanted to make a point that even mega women superstars aren’t immune to this acute case of Croisette mansplaining this year. May the Force Majeure be with us.

Top image courtesy of Kering, used with permission.

In Cinema, Festival Tags Cannes Film Festival, Festival de Cannes, Mansplaining, Golden Globes
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