BRIGHTER than sunshine

I did not intend to write another post devoted to Cannes, but recent events have washed over my mind and made me change it. There are very few individuals in the world who deserve the unbelievable honour that being talked about in my blog is. This only occurs when the sun is darkened by the brightness of something or someone out of the ordinary, which is short for: Brangelina did Cannes yesterday.
It's a little bit funny how easy and smoothly the Jolie-Pitt's make their way through premieres and people. Looking at the images of their arrivals on the screen it always appears as if they glide rather than walk and the only vision of it seems strangely divine and hypnotic. And their descent —they did come down the stairs— at the French movie festival was no exception.
My first reaction to the view of the über-popular hurricane was an inner smile, I thought: "They did it again". Then, like the rest of the mortals, I was stonned. But when the charm was over I suddenly realized they now have the same hair colour, they draw on their faces the same sort of kind but slightly fake smile and they flowed in unison. Angelina has somehow learned to salute like any other queen; for she is a queen, one with no country or throne but one who could fill any of them within the sole blink of one of those bluish green weapons God provided her with.
And Pitt. I wonder all the time about him. It looks to me like he is a mere product of his lover, a manufactured puppet. I couldn't have imagined him like this —almost geniuinely stylish— only a few years ago when he was still dating sweetheart Jennifer Aniston. And what about the time when he had the tough cubicle-headed look a little before Mr. and Mrs. Smith came along? But I above all unlikely events believe in style miracles; not in the ones who make someone good or gentle or even nice, but in the ones about image. I would now re-baptise Brad and name him "Extreme Makeover: Jolie Edition".
Let's not forget about the movie they came to Europe for promoting: A Mighty Heart. I will make as much noise about it as the media did: Angelina has dark curly hair in it. Now we may move on.
But I won't move on. I'll stop at once. This is as much as I desired to write today concerning this matter. I felt it was my citizen —and blogger— duty to report what has been THE event at Cannes. The festival is already watching the last of its seventh day fading away into the night.

I'm off.