The first man I met at the 67th Cannes Film Festival was a fifty-something producer who insisted upon fetching me champagne I hadn’t asked for. Night was falling and La Croisette, Cannes’ swankiest stretch of beachfront restaurants and boutiques and five-star hotels, sparkled like a celebrity’s loaned diamond necklace beneath us. I was there for the release of a film. Industry C-Listers jostled around a purple-lit stripe of pool bisecting the roof…