The 79th edition of the Cannes Film Festival unfolded beneath the familiar Riviera sun with all the ritual elegance that has long defined Cannes: the tuxedos, the diamonds, the endless procession of photographers, the orchestrated spectacle of cinema pretending, for twelve days, to remain the center of global culture. Yet this year, behind the flashes and the applause, one absence was impossible to ignore.
Not the absence of films. Cannes always has films.
Not even the absence of celebrities. Cannes can manufacture celebrity from almost anything.What was missing was Hollywood itself.
For decades, the glamour of Cannes was built not on European auteur cinema, but on the gravitational force of the American studio system. The festival’s mythology depended on the arrival of the great US majors, on stars descending the steps of the Palais like modern royalty, on Europe momentarily surrendering itself to the seduction of American cultural power. Cannes liked to imagine itself intellectually superior to Hollywood while simultaneously depending on Hollywood for its glitter.
This year, that contradiction became painfully visible.
The crowd waited eagerly for glimpses of Demi Moore, even though she was not the president of the jury. Her mere presence became symbolic: through her, the festival attempted to reclaim fragments of a fading aura. The excitement surrounding her appearances revealed something deeper and almost uncomfortable — Cannes still needs Hollywood far more than Hollywood needs Cannes.
The American studios, however, appeared increasingly reluctant to play their traditional role in sustaining the festival’s mythology. Their restraint was not accidental. It reflected a growing understanding that the geopolitical climate surrounding the United States now inevitably follows American cultural products abroad.
Hollywood spent years embracing progressive and “woke” ideological positioning, believing it aligned naturally with its audience and with the moral expectations of cultural elites. Opposition to its own government, suspicion toward traditional American identity, and performative political activism became integrated into the entertainment industry’s self-image. Yet Hollywood misunderstood one essential reality: outside America, Hollywood is not viewed as separate from the United States. It is America — perhaps distorted, perhaps romanticized, but unmistakably American nonetheless.
Europe’s cultural hostility toward the United States does not stop at politics or diplomacy. It spills naturally into perceptions of American brands, American corporations, American technology, and inevitably American cinema. Hollywood may imagine itself as a transnational moral authority floating above national identity, but audiences do not perceive it that way. Just as European antisemitism increasingly disguises itself through the language of Israeli politics, anti-American sentiment expresses itself through cultural rejection as much as through political rhetoric.
Hollywood does not exist on an island outside geopolitical reality.
The major US studios seem to understand this increasingly well. Investing enormous resources into Cannes no longer guarantees prestige, influence, or commercial upside. Quietly, they appear to fear that overt American visibility may even damage reception among parts of the European press and cultural establishment, potentially affecting both reviews and financial performance. In such an atmosphere, strategic absence becomes safer than grand presence.
Meanwhile, Cannes itself continues making decisions that accelerate its own marginalization. Years ago, the festival positioned itself against streaming platforms, clinging to an old hierarchy of cinema that audiences had already begun abandoning. Today, parts of the industry surrounding Cannes repeat the same instinctive hostility toward artificial intelligence, treating technological transformation not as an opportunity but as contamination.
The consequence is predictable.
Cannes risks confining itself to an increasingly narrow ecosystem of auteur films designed primarily for intellectual validation rather than broad public engagement. But niche markets rarely produce true glamour. Prestige alone cannot sustain spectacle. Red carpets require mass fascination, not merely critical approval. Glitter cannot survive indefinitely inside cultural isolation.
There is also a deeper irony at work. Many within the traditional film establishment speak of cultural restraint, artistic purity, or resistance to technological change as if abstinence itself were virtue. Yet history rarely rewards industries that retreat from innovation. Innovation threatens only those unwilling — or incapable — of using it to expand the emotional and commercial reach of their craft.
Cinema has never survived through intellectual rigor alone. It survives because audiences care.
And audiences increasingly live in a world shaped by streaming, algorithms, AI-generated tools, fragmented attention spans, and cultural acceleration. To reject these forces entirely is not an act of artistic courage. It is often an admission of institutional fear.
Cannes 2026 therefore felt less like a celebration of cinematic confidence and more like an elegant performance of denial. The festival maintained its choreography flawlessly. The gowns remained magnificent. The photographers continued shouting names into the Mediterranean night. But beneath the spectacle lingered a growing uncertainty over whether the machinery of glamour can survive once detached from the cultural power that originally sustained it.
For decades, Cannes mastered the art of pretending to resist Hollywood while secretly depending upon it.
This year, the dependence became visible precisely through Hollywood’s absence.
I was calmly eating my Belgian fries—perhaps one of Europe’s last undisputed contributions to world civilization—while watching the Flemish channel VTM. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and that of course meant it was time for a national ritual: discussing climate change on television.
Because nothing pairs better with a warm, dry day than a panel of concerned experts explaining why everything is actually getting worse.
The news anchor, with the appropriate dose of mild existential concern, asked the question of the day: Why is Europe warming faster than other continents? A fair question. You would expect a complex answer about ocean currents, atmospheric dynamics, or perhaps decades of industrial legacy.
Instead, the explanation took a turn that nearly cost me my appetite.
According to the expert, Europe’s enthusiastic green policies may have… unintended side effects. Fewer emissions mean fewer particles in the air—particles that used to reflect sunlight and thus formed a kind of atmospheric “shield.” In other words: by cleaning the air, we may also be removing a protective layer against the sun.
At that moment, my fries became secondary. I was witnessing a philosophical paradox unfolding live on television: Europe, in its moral quest to save the planet, may be making itself more vulnerable to exactly what it is trying to combat.
You would almost expect a Nobel Prize for irony.
And so we naturally arrive at the thought experiment of the day. If fewer emissions reduce that protective layer, then the often-criticized “Drill Baby Drill” philosophy might deserve reconsideration—not as environmental damage, but as… climate management.
Absurd? Certainly. But no more absurd than pretending that complex systems respond linearly to idealistic policies.
After all, Nobel Prizes have been awarded for raising awareness about global warming. By that logic, one might almost expect that someone like Donald Trump would at least receive a nomination for proposing counterbalances—however controversial. When one side of the debate is treated as untouchable doctrine, the other side quickly begins to look like heresy… until reality asserts itself.
Because here lies the uncomfortable truth: nature does not follow ideology.
In life, and apparently also in the environment, everything revolves around balance. Push too far—whether toward unchecked industrialization or toward uncompromising green orthodoxy—and the system reacts. Not with applause, but with correction.
When policy becomes religion, nuance is the first casualty. And nature, unlike voters, does not negotiate. It restores equilibrium.
Perhaps that is the real lesson, somewhere between a portion of fries and a television debate: environmental policy is not about purity. Not about absolutism. Not about moral superiority.
It is about balance.
And balance, by definition, requires more than one force.
Which may well be the most uncomfortable conclusion of all.
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