How Not to Get Your Sh*t Stolen by Gabriel Jenkinson

 This year, the festival issued all the guests a warning about “jewel thefts resembling ‘heist films’” prior to the festival this year. A plot so meta that it belongs in the Un Certain Regard section. And yet, the premise is entirely unoriginal. It seems that every year there’s some form of outlandish caper in Cannes.

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One veteran executive told me that there used to be a station in which a jeweler would loan out high-profile pieces, and one year someone managed to Lupin over a million dollars’ worth of jewelry from the safe they were kept in while the guard was out to lunch. The real robbery was that he probably spent 30 euros on a salad. Apparently, someone also Ocean’s Elevened a million-dollar necklace during a party that same year despite there being almost 100 guards watching the item. The thief just… waltzed… out with it. Sorry, the pun couldn’t be helped—I’ll see myself out now. Just like the burglar, presumably. 

Last year, somebody Rififi’d an actress’s Gucci-loaned necklaces while she was out to breakfast the night after a premiere. She had to spend a half-day out of her trip in the police station. Still a better use of time than repeatedly refreshing the ever-glitchy ticket reservation webpage hoping to get the last open seat for a Palais screening before inevitably trying your luck in the last-minute ticket line, then watching your hopes die in real time as the film start time approaches and passes. If that sounds overly specific, it’s because it’s how I spent a good chunk of my day today. I should’ve gotten a press pass. 

There’s a heist film plot somewhere in this yearly phenomenon. Maybe even a whole TV series’ worth. If it weren’t for the fact that heist films are so overdone that there doesn’t exist a single imaginal thesis of thievery which hasn’t been made already, I’d think that filmmakers and executives were getting robbed on purpose just for the IP. Can’t fault them for trying in this barren creative economy.

Speaking of, the thieves themselves are guilty of plagiarism. The syndicate of roughly 200 master thieves which operate on the riviera are known as the “Pink Panthers.” Where’s Inspector Clouseau when you need him. 

Even us plebians can fall victim to the light-fingered locals. Pickpockets prowl the streets, lifting guests’ wallets as they brave the torrent of traffic along the Croisiette. Cat burglars scale hotel balconies to snag the laptops film companies optimistically think their executives will actually use at the festival. Bartenders charge 5 euros for a glass of water with a lemon wedge in it. Nobody is safe.

My solution? Be poor and unimportant enough that the burglars have nothing to steal anyway. All they’ll find on me are borderline unfashionable clothes and business cards people don’t want anyway. Really, any thieves who’d make the mistake of robbing me would probably be doing me a favor.

And this year, a special consideration for those of a Russian oligarch persuasion; don’t dock your boat in the marina, as it will be requisitioned by the French authorities definitely dock your mega-yacht which cost the equivalent of Sierra Leone’s national GDP in the marina, as it will definitely not be requisitioned by the French authorities.

At the end of the day, however, the most talked-about “robbery,” will be some film winning the Palme D’Or over some other. This will in turn steal headlines and requisition attention from the world-at-large for however many days it is before the next international celebrity Twitter gaff.