Like the gun-toting “Les Miserables” students storming the barricade, Cannes has taken a stand — against, of all things, obscenity.
C’est rich!
The hon! hon! hon! film festival on France’s Cote d’Azur implemented a new restrictive rule on Monday, targeting individuals like Bianca Censori, at the start of their cinematic event.
“For decency reasons, nudity is prohibited on the red carpet, as well as in any other area of the festival,” le statement declared.
Liberté, egalité, no nudité!
At pretty much any nearby beach, however, the waist-up dress code remains au naturale.
It’s undeniable that provocative appearances are becoming increasingly common at glamorous events worldwide. The Post’s photo editors are so preoccupied with editing out revealing images of famous women that it eats into their lunch breaks.
At the Grammys, Kanye West’s girlfriend, Censori, appeared in what seemed like a body-sized nylon sock but was later escorted out. Bella Hadid has also stirred controversy with sheer dresses at Cannes, as has Kendall Jenner.
I know — such shocking behavior from these classy, classy names.
A week ago, Halle Berry left little to the imagination at the Met Gala.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Cannes has also canned “voluminous” outfits with long trains and other excesses — a k a the fun ones. The huge dresses, not European sluggishness, hold up other entrants.
Amusingly, that’s Berry’s problem in France: Her frock has too much fabric. She’s gone from sheer to shears.
Bravely, I am pro-clothes-in-public. But the hand-wringing from the Pierres and Claudettes is hilarious.
For one, this isn’t Kalamazoo — it’s France, the country of Manet, Matisse and Courbet.
And, specific to Cannes, after these newly layered-up monks and nuns somberly march into the Grand Théâtre Lumière, bared flesh is all over the screen.
The French Riviera transforms into Times Square circa 1972.
No less than 17 films in the fest’s 78 year history have featured graphic, un-simulated sex scenes. Some call it art, some call it porn. You say potato, I say pomme de terre.
One, director Gaspar Noe’s “Love” in 2015, featured beaucoup hardcore hanky panky. A carnal MadLibs, the movie had threesomes, orgies, beds, bathrooms, basements and dingy hallways in ample combinations. Plus, like “Avatar: The Way of Water,” “Love” was shot in 3-D.
You can only imagine.
Vincent Gallo’s 2003 flick “Brown Bunny,” in which the writer/actor/director was actually pleasured by star Chloe Sevigny, was called the worst Cannes movie ever by Roger Ebert.
Lest we forget, last year’s Palme d’Or winner “Anora” begins with a series of topless lap dances.
And my word count isn’t long enough — nor my stomach strong enough — to take you through the raunchy resume of Lars von Trier.
All this to say, the festival is rather in-Cannes-sistent.
I’m in the market for some mischief. Maybe some rebellious attendees will give us a French revolution, arrive in the buff and get carted away.
Did you know Cannes also requires “elegant” footwear? They’ve kicked filmmakers off the carpet for simply wearing moccasins. They’d “Mon Dieu!” my Sundance sweatpants. If a starlet were forcibly removed for immodesty, that would make a killer story.
It would be even better than last year’s festival’s unfortunate headline grabbers: “Megalopolis” and “Horizon: An American Saga.”
Talk about obscene. Sacré bleu!
