Cannes Lions 2026: Expectations from a first timer
The author shares her first-time Cannes checklist, from jury duty and creative inspiration to rosé, and hopes for a George Russell sighting.
When I was selected to serve on the shortlisting jury for Film Craft at Cannes Lions this year, the world was very kind. There were congratulations, messages, generous words and many exclamation marks. My internal response, however, was less composed. It was mostly: “err okay, now what?” Followed closely by: “Does this mean I need linen?”
Cannes has existed in my life as a place other people went to. I have been part of teams that walked up on that glorious stage and lifted a Lion, followed by inaudibly loud video calls that I took while crouched on the filthy stairs of Bonobo. “Why weren’t you here?” they all said, and still say. (I’m looking at you, Leo).
A close friend has also tried, repeatedly, to bully me lovingly into applying for 'See It Be It'. “It will change your life,” she promised. (I’m looking at you, Kopal Nathani). My lazy cells, naturally, did nothing. They were busy conserving energy for future regret. So, heading to Cannes as a shortlisting jury member, representing Good Morning Films from India, was not on my bingo card.
The jury part, oddly, has been easier to process. Watching cutting-edge work from around the world is equal parts inspiring and jealousy-inducing. Between scoring films and asking myself deeply productive questions like “Why aren’t I this awesome?”, “Do they crib about budgets as much as we do?” and “What am I doing with my life?”, I didn’t really stop to ask what I expect from my first Cannes trip.
What I have been told to expect, however, has been suspiciously consistent. One: “Oh, it’s your first time? You’ll have fun.” Two: “Prepare for a river of rosé.”
The first response is reassuring because it suggests I don’t have to put on work face. I struggle with that in Goregaon West, let alone France South. If the Palais and I are meeting with first-date energy: anticipation, rosé-tinted glasses, no networking pressure, then fun shall be had. The second response is also manageable. I am typing this with one hand, while the other remains in strict training with stemware. Hydration is important. So is specificity.
I expect to be torn between my academic desire to attend sessions and an equally urgent responsibility towards my Instagram grid. I have been to Paris, but the South of France is terra nova. Did I even go to Saint-Paul-de-Vence if I didn’t gram it? Yes, I am that vain. The decision to nourish oneself intellectually by listening to some of the most creative minds on the planet faces a DEFCON 1 threat from the need to post a story from the slowest F1 turn in Monaco. But I also hear George Russell is speaking on a panel. You see my problem.
Mostly, I expect to be overwhelmed. By the occasion, the people, the sheer sea of talent, the chaos, the happenings, the FOMO, the possibility of using the phrase “my jury experience” in a sentence without sounding like a menace. I hope to mask it well.
Actually, let me move from what I expect to what I want.
I want to accidentally sit next to a Brazilian director and have the conversation of a lifetime. Or at least a conversation good enough to casually mention later.
I want to watch award-winning work in the basement exhibition and feel that electric, all-consuming, untameable urge to become better at my craft. I want that energy to travel back home with me, especially for the many moments when creative vision politely collapses under the weight of reality and someone saying, “Can we do this in one location?”
I want a stranger on the Croisette to say, “Hey, love your shoes.” I want to eat nauseating amounts of oysters, baguettes and cheese, then pretend this is cultural immersion and not simply a digestive risk assessment. I want to correctly pronounce “Un verre de rosé, s’il vous plaît” at least once, ideally before the river of rosé pronounces me. I want to have, for the gazillionth time, a conversation about AI and originality with people who are not yet tired of having it for the gazillionth time themselves. I want George Russell to make eye contact with me. This is not an expectation. This is a prayer.
More than anything, I want to return tanned, exhausted, humbled, energised and slightly unbearable. Ready to write part deux of this article. Possibly from Mumbai’s monsoon hell, where the only river in sight will not be rosé, but ankle-deep rainwater outside Pali Naka.
The author is director, Good Morning Films.