Ellery Hart had me at “Yes, sir”—her opening line inGracie.
Me and the rest of the Grand Lumière movie theatre.
I’m pretty careful which premieres I say yes to in Cannes. It’s usually way more fun to do the parties, or go hang at the Eden Roc with my buddies. But the critical buzz around this movie was major, and when Brad Burton offers to be your plus-one, you can’t say no. Amy, his wife, isn't here. I get the feeling there’s trouble in paradise. Again.
So, after Brad and I goofed around for the cameras on the red carpet, we settled down to watch the movie. It was a little indie production, but the cinematography grabbed me from the get-go. It was gorgeous: sweeping expanses of bleak moors and big sky, the stunning drone shots perfectly capturing the desolation and repressed turmoil of the characters.
But nothing about the movie was as ravishing as her.
Ellery.
When she was on screen, the camera barely had time for anyone else. The lens followed her greedily, like it couldn’t getenough of her. I sympathised, and I was grateful. Super grateful. Because she was a fucking vision.
I had to consult my programme to find her name. I’d never heard of her before. I’d be googling her as soon as I got out of here. Brad nudged me, and we exchanged a knowing nod. He got it too. The premieres at Cannes could be fucking tedious, but once in a blue moon you got those goosebumps that signalled you were witnessing something special, and I had those then.
Gracie was a maid in England, in I guess the 1920s. She was ravishing and shy—presumably from a lifetime of submission—and worked for a depressing couple in a depressing house somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Her odious little boss put pressure on her to have sexual relations with him, and man, it was tough to watch, because while she went along with it, nothing about that sex was consensual.
In this part of the story, the director had chosen to show Gracie through the male gaze, as a submissive, voiceless piece of pussy this creepy dickwad felt he could objectify and abuse. But there was also the suggestion of what this lifestyle, and his unwanted attentions more specifically, were doing to her. They were killing her, bit by bit. This douche was eating away at her soul, and her character took on the very blankness that he’d projected on her. It was fucking brutal.
Because this was a female-directed movie, we got a happy ending for Gracie where I was not expecting one, and a deservedly gory ending for Creepy Dickwad. She stabbed him and escaped with a huge chunk of his cash, which allowed her to flee to Paris and forge a happy and fulfilling life for herself.
The most troubling part of the movie for me was that, while I was clenching my fists in fury and disgust at this guy’s crimes, I was also so fucking into Gracie—Ellery—it wasn’t funny.
She was mesmerising. The camera was up in her space thewhole time. And it should have felt relentless, and intrusive, and it did. But it was also a celebration of her incredible beauty. The way they’d lit this movie was a fucking miracle, and the luminosity of her creamy skin filled the screen. She was a triumph, and the curve of her breast and the indent of her waist and the plumpness of her lower lip were works of art.
The movie got a six-minute standing ovation. Six minutes. I’d only had two movies at Cannes, and neither of them had received any standing ovation. But this team deserved every fucking second, and I was there with the rest of them, clapping away long after my palms were stinging.
I was only a couple rows behind her and I watched as she stood and took a bow with the director and that jerk who played her boss. The storyline had hit me so hard I felt like punching his face in, but Ellery got him in a headlock and gave him a smacker on the cheek. I guess it was a good reminder that what I’d just experienced was fiction. I needed to get a fucking grip.
Anyway, I was happy to ignore the stinging of my palms and drink her in. She was young—like, seriously young. Twenty-one, maybe? And glowing and gorgeous in a long, strapless gold dress. That camera hadn’t lied. On her face was a mixture of delight and disbelief that she was on the receiving end of such a rapturous reception from the biggest names in the business. She was radiant.
And all I could think was,oh, sweetheart. One day, you’ll be a bigger name than anyone else here. You have no fucking clue what’s ahead of you.
I was still stuck inside my own head when I saw her at the Vanity Fair party later. You know it’s a good movie when you can’t shake its effect on you. To get in the party mood, I did a couple lines in the restroom and followed it up with some shots at the bar with my buddies.
And then I spotted her.
The woman of the hour.
The golden girl.
Ellery Hart.
Only, instead of playing a put-upon maid a hundred years ago, she was firmly in this century: hair loose, legs endless and all that skin now on display in a different, tiny silver dress that caught the light.
On the surface, I was nodding while Davide droned on about his latest movie, but mostly I just watched her. She had her share of well-wishers—her movie had had a good turnout—but she seemed to be keeping to the sidelines with her pals. Until she wasn’t. She headed for the dance floor and she let loose.
Man, could she move. I was having trouble squaring this vision of a twerking party girl with the austere beauty of the character I’d just lost my heart to on screen, but that conflict was just making me more curious. This Ellery Hart had many facets, and I was interested in getting to know all of them.
I downed the rest of my scotch and slammed my tumbler on the bar. Raked back my hair.
‘I’m gonna go dance with our girl, Ellery,’ I told the guys. They laughed.
‘Good luck with that, buddy.’ Brad slapped me on the shoulder.
‘I don’t need luck. Not with these hips.’ I rolled them for him, and he guffawed in disgust.
‘Get outta here.’
