Frisco sunrise

Jet lag was making me restless as the dawn chorus kicked in so I headed to the water to watch the sun come up.

San Francisco Bay has a homecoming feel even for a foreigner, and at sunrise it is beyond magical. As you walk down the steep streets through the city on the way, jets of steam are caught by the morning sun, a golden mist rises from every manhole cover, and the ladders clinging to the tall brick buildings glow red in the early light.

Then, as you approach the bay, the sweet smell of saltwater and jasmine hits you like the perfume of a lost loved one, and the sight before you is enough to make tired eyes cry. Birds fly low over the gently lilting water, and the Bay Bridge stretches tall and wide, bathed in a bright mist, rising from the blue. Seagulls hover and caw, the water laps the wharf, and as I sit down I realise it's little wonder this place has inspired so many to so much. I am sitting on the dock of the bay as the Sunday sun shines down, and, with a blissful disregard for cliche, I fire up Otis Redding and close my eyes.

Madonna and Dirty Harry

Bleary-eyed and bruised from a media scrum last night, I've just got up and opened the window of our one-bedroom apartment to let the sunshine and fresh air stream in.

I'm now sat at a table crammed with equipment, half of which I hadn't heard of before last week. An Avid laptop, a break-out box and lip mic, a marantz, stick mic and another laptop, an ISDN kit, a phone, Wifi modem, chargers, batteries, bulbs and more tapes than you can imagine.

We helped out a couple of more experienced broadcasters produce some TV pieces from this very room, and they immediately recognised the scene, and said it brought the memories flooding back. This is the life of a crew on the road.

Last night was mental. After editing, filing, and a Che presser in the day, we prepared for Amfar, Madonna and Sharon Stone's 'Cinema Against AIDS' party, the most star-studded bash this side of the Oscars. Our coach driver got lost, so our early shuttle arrived late, and it wasn't a good start.

We were met with a packed wall of paps, press, TV and radio crews, crammed in like I've never seen before, elbowing, pushing, vying for position / space / air to breathe. The red carpet (well, concrete strip) was about 10 metres long and the melee faced it behind a barrier. Our allotted 'space' was five metres in with no way to get over the barrier. So we entered from one end, pushed, pulled, squeezed and fought our way to our spot, and set up for the craziest night of filming I've ever experienced.

But - we spoke to Sharon Stone, Mary J Blige, Madonna, Mila Jovovich, Dita Von Teese, Christian Slater, Rose McGowan, Harvey Weinstein, Roberto Cavalli, Valentino, Donatella Versace and Dennis Hopper and shot hundreds of others, so as far as footage went, we got stuff in the bag.

We have plenty more to do today, but we leave tomorrow and it really feels like the whole experience is drawing to a close. We went for a meal after Amfar last night (Alison finally filed after 4am) and we're already getting pretty nostalgic about it, like it's already a distant dream.

Just before the meal, I ran out to catch some of Dirty Harry on the big-screen beach cinema. With the lights of the Croisette buzzing behind, and the waves of the Mediterannean breaking in front, it is possibly the most romantic and beautiful setting ever for a cinema. I missed Clint's introduction, but arrived in time for the iconic 'Well do ya, punk?' scene, sat in a deckchair on the sand under a starry sky. It was wonderful.

Cannes In A Van

Review: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Everyone wanted this to work.

I don't care if you thought it was a bad idea, a project destined for failure, or a cynical moneymaking venture - when the red curtain rose, I, along with everyone else in the cinema, wanted Spielberg, Ford and co. to come up with the goods.

The opening scenes are promising, as the film hurtles into gear with a pacy title sequence that draws us in and gets us going. The knowing, self-referential script ("It's not as easy as it used to be", "Let's do this the old fashioned way") suits the mood, and everyone's clearly trying their absolute best to make this work.

A silly, CGI-heavy set-piece then distracts us from the characters and action, and the film begins to lose its way. I don't want to say too much about the plot, but I will say the baddies aren't bad enough (think of the deliciously dark madmen in the Temple of Doom or the icy Nazis in the Last Crusade), the funny bits aren't funny enough (again, failing to match the original trilogy), and Harrison Ford, who does his level best, just doesn't bring the same level of wit and flair to the role. Maybe he's trying too hard. Or maybe he's just too old.

Enter Shia LeBoeuf, the young, spunky protégé hired to act like a kind of motorised cart to carry (often literally) the pensionable Indy along, and fire some life into the old dog. He's OK, plenty of 'tude, but a pretty boring character really - I can't remember him doing anything fun.

Finally there's Marion whats-her-name from Raiders of the Lost Ark. She's back, but the chemistry unfortunately isn't - the romantic element restricted to a couple of cringeworthy kisses between the two re-united old-timers. No young hot vixen for Shia to seduce, but, as the end of the film depressingly suggests, there may well be time for all that, with Shia set to swipe the fedora and finally bury the franchise.

Indy: The Verdict

Good - but not amazing.

That's the word from the one of us in the flat that's seen it, and it's pretty much the consensus of the critics out here in Cannes.

The red carpet was littered with A-listers flocking in to see far and away the most exciting and hotly anticipated world premiere at this year's festival, and earlier at the press screening, there were cheers as the credits rolled and the iconic theme music kicked in. Hopefully, if today's schedule permits, I'll be able to tell you what I think later on, but suffice to say the cheers were less enthusiastic at the end, and there was even the odd boo.

There were no boos, however, for the eleven good men and true of Exeter City Football Club, who triumphed at Wembley over inferior rivals Cambridge United to storm straight (well not quite straight) back into the Football League. COME ON CITY.

Indiana Jones and the Play-off Final

Today is Judgment Day.

The day I find out whether Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is any good, and whether my beloved Exeter City make it back into the football league.

Sadly I don't have tickets either to Wembley or the Grand Theatre Lumiere, but I will know nonetheless.

And I will, of course, keep you posted...

When Harry met Pedro... (Review: Vicky Cristina Barcelona)

My second film in Cannes, and it's great to see the New Woody Allen has found his feet.

After a faltering start to his European re-invention with Match Point, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is an intelligent and accomplished piece of work, and a hugely enjoyable watch.

Two American tourists, played by Scarlett Johansson and Rebecca Hall (say who now? British actress, who was in Starter for 10 and The Prestige) escape to Barcelona for a summer of love. Very different kinds of love, as the all-knowing but unidentified narrator explains: Scarlett's character Cristina is a wannabe-bohemian looking for adventure, and edgy, dangerous romance. Hall's newly engaged Vicky is there to explore her love of Catalan identity, while counting the days before returning to her materialistic but fairly sympathetic fiance.

The die is cast on their first night out in Barcelona, when they are approached by brooding, swarthy, Latino artist Juan Antonio, played with relish by Javier Bardem. His larger-than-life racial stereotype combined with the fact we know Scarlett Johansson is looking for exactly what he's offering makes for some hilarious dramatic irony and knowing comedy.

Bardem makes the girls an offer they ultimately can't refuse, and the film really gets going.

Enter Penelope Cruz, another exaggerated character playing on the personas she's created in previous films, but stopping short of parody. She is a woman possessed, enraged, full of anger and creative emotion - for good and for bad. Her dialogue and chemistry with Bardem is perhaps the most enjoyable and original element of the film - their Spanglish rows perfectly capturing the clash of cultures, and all credit to the director for allowing them the freedom he clearly has with the script and language.

Not to give too much away, the plot that follows is a messy love square that twists and turns, producing buckets of angst and neurotic analysis, mostly from the American contingent, although Cruz's outbursts more than compensate on the Spanish side.

The headline-grabbing talking point of the film is the lesbian stuff between Johansson and Cruz, which is less titillating than intriguing, and fits entirely with the direction and mood of the movie.

Like Manhattan, and, to a lesser extent, London in Match Point, the city of Barcelona plays an active role in the film, and the director goes a bit doe-eyed over the honey-sunshine-drenched Gaudi architecture and surrounding countryside. But it is the perfect setting for the culture-clash themes, and the invasion of the American tourists throws up all sorts of fascinating cultural differences and similarities debated through the characters.

Some people aren't going to like the voiceover - it's a very easy exposition device that remains unexplained. It'll frustrate and disappoint some, but frankly it is necessary and it didn't bother me a jot.

So yes, this is Woody Allen 'doing' Almodovar, but what he's created is no pastiche. It's an original and successful character comedy that's finally banished the ghost of the Allen we know and love in front of the camera, by effectively channeling his neuroses into fresh characters.