The politics of the Cannes red carpet

At Cannes, they like to say the red carpet is sacred. Each summer, the iconic crimson spread over the Palais steps at the Promenade de la Croisette becomes a catwalk for the global elite. But it has also long served as a secular altar of sorts. To cinema, yes, but also to spectacle, vanity, and power. This storied temple of celluloid indulgence often finds itself reluctantly, and sometimes gracelessly, at the intersection of art, activism, repression and revolt. And so, unsurprisingly, the carpet this year has once again turned into a vivid tableau of political tensions, sartorial censorships and cultural reckonings.

It started, ostensibly, with the absence of glamour. Not in the haute couture sense, but in the more abstract disappearance of the escapist, indulgent promise of glamour. A stiffness and austerity found its way to the festival defined by these very indulgences. One might just brand it recession chic, if the mood weren’t more deeply moralistic. The festival’s semi-permeable bubble has often been a place where art pretends not to notice politics, only to burst into applause when the two inevitably collide.

Robert De Niro, receiving a lifetime achievement award, kicked off the festival by skewering Donald Trump as a “philistine” and called for immediate action in an impassioned speech. Jury president Juliette Binoche matched De Niro’s candour with a sombre invocation of war and climate collapse. “War, misery, climate change, primitive misogyny — the demons of our barbarities leave us no outlet.”

Robert De Niro attends Rendez-Vous with Robert De Niro at the 78th annual Cannes Film Festival at Salle Debussy
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Julian Assange, newly freed and clad in a T-shirt bearing the names of the thousands of children killed in Gaza, arrived for the premiere of The Six Billion Dollar Man, a documentary chronicling his years of persecution. Meanwhile, a letter condemning Israel’s genocidal actions in Gaza circulated with hundreds of film industry signatories.

Earlier, internet heartthrob and Eddington star Pedro Pascal used the post-premiere spotlight at Cannes to deliver a rallying cry. “F**k the people that try to make you scared,” he said, voice steady but electric. “Fear is the way that they win… Fight back. Don’t let them win.” Angelina Jolie, too, lent her gravitas while speaking of slain Palestinian journalist Fatima Hassouneh, whose documentary, selected by Cannes, was eclipsed by her death in an Israeli airstrike. “The artists and journalists around the world are risking their lives to tell the truth — often without any protection.”

On the other hand, Indian model and actress Ruchi Gujjar caused a stir and a collective double-take by showing up in full bridal regalia, complete with a necklace flaunting none other than Prime Minister Modi’s face as the centrepiece accessory. And Aishwarya Rai arrived sporting an ivory sari, with a streak of vermillion sindoor down the part of her hair read as a not-so-subtle nationalist salute to India’s recent eponymous military action in Pakistan.

Aishwarya Rai attends the ;The History Of Sound’ red carpet at the 78th annual Cannes Film Festival at Palais des Festivals
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These statements echo an already rich history of symbolism and protest at Cannes: from Cate Blanchett’s green-lined gown at last year’s premiere of The Apprentice (interpreted as a nod to the Palestinian flag), to Iranian model Mahlagha Jaberi’s noose-like collar protesting Iran’s executions following the Mahsa Amini protests, to Bella Hadid’s keffiyeh-scarved dress and Kani Kusruti’s watermelon clutch. Stylistic choices have long functioned as encrypted political dispatches.

A fresh crop of self-styled Indian influencers descended upon the Croisette this year as well, and some in Bollywood are clutching their pearls in dismay. The enclave of auteur prestige now teems with content creators striking brand-sponsored poses beside Palme d’Or contenders, and the resulting backlash has revealed a peculiar form of elitism cloaked in the language of cinematic sanctity.

A lightning rod in this influencer-versus-artist standoff this year was Kusha Kapila, who was forced to defend her presence last year after being dismissed as a “random celebrity.” The term quite neatly encapsulates how threatened traditionalists feel when these supposed ‘gatecrashers’ come bearing brand deals instead of selections from the Criterion closet.

Yet, as comedian Vir Das has now astutely pointed out, it’s hard to cry “sacrilege” while simultaneously promoting your film on influencer podcasts. The real tension isn’t about art, but about access. Cannes is no longer just a cinephile’s most prestigious fête, but also a business convention in vogue.

Indian influencer Masoom Minawala at the Cannes Film Festival 2025 red carpet
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Instagram/ @masoomminawala

But the politics of the festival has now begun reigning in those very aesthetic sensibilities as well. This is infamously the year Cannes has tightened its corset, literally and figuratively. The new ban on nudity and voluminous gowns, in a thinly veiled nod to “decency”, has already left stylists and stars scrambling. Once delighting in sheer chiffon and the slow-motion drama of a trailing hem, the red carpet’s archaic crackdown has banished the oxymoronic naked dresses. The very act of looking — of dressing, undressing, and being seen — has become fraught.

The new dress code has ostensibly been about safety, but is increasingly being read as a curtsy to cultural conservatism. The irony of audiences routinely being treated to ample (and predominantly female) on-screen nudity — usually in service of narratives that might label themselves “bold”, “progressive” or “unflinching” — seems to be quite lost on the organisers. Outside, women are told to behave, but inside, their bodies remain fair game.

But this is not a new tension, and Cannes has tried, with limited success, to manage the optics. Think back to 2018’s silent protest, when 82 women — including Blanchett, Kristen Stewart, Lea Seydoux and more — stood on the steps demanding gender parity in cinema. Or Salma Hayek’s 2014 moment, when she held a placard reading #BringBackOurGirls, demanding action on the Nigerian schoolgirl kidnappings. Or in 2023, when Ukrainian influencer Ilona Chernobai doused herself in fake blood after climbing the Palais steps in the colours of her national flag.

Jury head Cate Blanchett with other filmmakers reads a statement on the steps of the red carpet in protest of the lack of female filmmakers honored throughout the history of the festival during the 71st annual Cannes Film Festival at the Palais des Festivals on May 12, 2018 in Cannes, France
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Cannes has long trafficked in a paradox. It has historically been both a fiercely French sanctuary for difficult, edgy art and a megaphone for the frivolous. Yet this year, the contrasts have become frustratingly hard to ignore. Critics have pointed to the whiplash-inducing contradiction of Cannes’ past: the same institution that banned flats in 2015 and once rebuked burkinis has historically unfurled its carpet for the likes of Roman Polanski and Woody Allen.

This year, Cannes’ oft-embattled delegate general Thierry Frémaux banned actor Théo Navarro-Mussy from attending the premiere of Dossier 137 after multiple allegations of sexual assault. Though the move finally aligned the festival with the French César Academy’s zero-tolerance policy, sceptics pointed out the convenient timing. In past years, Frémaux dismissed such criticisms as “false”, but with Gérard Depardieu’s fresh conviction blessing the festival’s opening and making France’s #MeToo reckoning impossible to ignore, the festival seems to be playing catch-up.

Yet still, this reckoning remains astonishingly uneven. So far, Kevin Spacey has been honoured by a charity operating on Cannes’ periphery. Ezra Miller was spotted ducking flashbulbs on the Die, My Love carpet, James Franco was spotted flashing a smile on the Vie Privée carpet, and Shia LaBeouf quietly slipped into a screening about his ‘experimental’ theatre school. For all the talk of propriety, Cannes has yet to articulate a consistent standard for dealing with alleged abusers. Up until now, it’s been caught between the old guard’s nostalgia and the younger generation’s insistence on accountability.

Director Leo Lewis O’Neil with Shia LaBeouf, team of the documentary film ‘Slauson Rec’ presented as part of Cannes Classics, pose on the red carpet at the 78th Cannes Film Festival
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Amid the awkward contortions of a struggling institution, the films, thankfully, still matter. But to everyone watching, the festival is no longer just about cinema. It never really was. Perhaps that is the final, most uncomfortable truth about an event as lavish and opulent as Cannes. That to even walk the red carpet, debate dress codes, and bask in the glory of ovations, is a kind of privilege. To attend is to indulge in a curated fantasy that floats above the bloodied headlines of atrocities unfolding in real time.

And maybe that’s the lingering paradox Cannes can never quite smooth over. The sheer misguidedness of convening in couture while the world convulses just beyond the velvet rope.