Olivia Cole's Diary

Who says there were no women in Cannes this year? I started the festival hanging out with Bonnie Wright (Mrs Harry Potter, now branching out into directing) on the roof of the Martinez hotel at Chopard’s party for young talent, listening to Lana Del Rey, and watch-ing Shailene Woodley being awarded the Chopard trophy for her work in The Descendants. Lana’s otherworldly voice matches her otherworldly looks; in a white trouser suit she looked like a sea creature who’d joined the party straight from the Med. So far, so surreal.

Next stop, more women. Calvin Klein threw a party celebrating women in independent film, specifically Diane Kruger, Naomi Watts, Jessica Chastain and Hayley Atwell, who all glittered in the garden. I met my Twitter buddy Alec Baldwin for the first time; he helped the campaign for the ill-fated Travel Bookshop in Notting Hill via his prolific Twitter feed. Alec has been wearing a mic while working the Cannes party circuit, for a documentary on the festival – he and his fiancée Hilaria Thomas went to almost as many parties as your correspondent.

On Friday I headed to Carnival in Cannes, a Haiti benefit organised by Paul Haggis, Sean Penn and Petra Nemcova. It was hosted by Penn’s buddy Giorgio Armani (‘Mr Armani’ to the rest of us). Neatly avoiding the ultimate Côte d’Azur faux pas of wearing the wrong couturier on first meeting, I was dressed in a pale pink chiffon Armani Privée number – a proper Cannes Cinderella for my audience with the designer. As I was presented, Mr Armani nodded in approval. He’s a man of few words. The dress also got the thumbs up from my friend of many words Gerard Butler, who fessed up to missing London. Gerry has also worked for Haggis’s Haiti charity Artists for Peace and Justice and gamely agreed to be auctioned off as a prize. A date with him went for a cool ¤100,000; steep, even by Cannes standards. Guests, including Ewan McGregor, Ben Stiller and David Schwimmer, were harangued by Penn who silenced the room in a speech that con-tained more ‘f***s’ than Trainspotting. Port-au- Prince band RAM got the room on its feet after an auction that made you think that François Hollande should hire Haggis and Penn to sort out the country’s economic woes.

After a chic French breakfast the next morning of a solitary macaroon, I headed to photographer and playboy Jean Pigozzi’s house next to the Hotel du Cap, where time seems to have stood still for the past 80 years. I half expected to see Zelda Fitzgerald on a chaise longue. Dotted amid the pine trees was an almost comical gathering of powerhouses at play: Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen planning his Cuban-themed festival party aboard one of his yachts, U2 manager Paul McGuinness (a local) and Salma Hayek, whose outfit made my beach dress look distinctly scruffy. In mind-spinning succession I was introduced to music mogul David Geffen, DreamWorks’ Jeffrey Katzenberg, and director/producer Brett Ratner, the last surrounded by girls clinging to him hopefully – why have one date when you can have five? – and finally Robert De Niro with the full Travis Bickle twinkle, at which point I lost my studied Cannes cool. You talking to me? For a moment, yes I was… about my film education, which started when my uncle made me watch Awakenings at the tender age of ten (for days I was inconsolable). Even in the face of my bizarre confessions, De Niro had the calm of a true gent who’s worked out that whatever their reasons, half the world (and his wife) wants to say hello to him.

With no time for a disco nap before the Vanity Fair party, courtesy of my stylist friend Joanne Black who had been dressing ‘personnes’ in the Dantean pandemonium of the Martinez, I wore cream polka dots by L’Wren Scott, the tall glamazon girlfriend of Mick Jagger. Surreally, I swapped fashion notes with Bryan Lourd, CAA super-agent and best buddy of George Clooney, whose status as the most powerful figure in Hollywood makes him one of the few men who can pull off a powder blue Tom Ford suit.

Vanity Fair exceeded itself in the spectacular setting of the Hotel du Cap, installing giant white balloons out in the sea and spelling out its famous logo in huge red Lilos in the pool. Getting to meet P Diddy after pondering whether to address him as Puffy or Sean or perhaps, when in France, Monsieur Diddy, it struck me that it was probably time to go home. I can’t wait to see @AlecBaldwin’s Cannes documentary. Let’s just hope he didn’t catch any of my 4am dancing. ES