Appropriate attire required at the Cannes Film Festival

The news broke on the eve of the 78th Cannes Film Festival:
"For reasons of decency, nudity is prohibited on the red carpet as well as in any other area of the festival (...) Outfits, in particular long trains, whose volume hinders the smooth movement of guests and complicates seating in the hall, are not permitted."

A decision that, on paper, might seem innocuous. Even welcome, according to film purists, whose voices are increasingly raised against the presence of celebrities and influencers on the red carpet. But as is often the case, fashion is never just about fabric. What seems anecdotal is, in reality, profoundly political.

Behind the arguments of “practicality” (sitting down without overflowing, passing without tripping), another, more insidious discourse creeps in: that of decency. A word with hidden meanings, quite convenient for cloaking control in a veil of propriety. The Robert dictionary speaks of “respect for good morals.” The Larousse, of “modesty” and “dignity.” In short: dress neatly, ladies, and cover that bare back and those breasts that should not be seen.

Because let's not kid ourselves: this injunction to be decent is (still) aimed at women. It doesn't concern baggy tuxedos or unbuttoned shirts. It's slit dresses, bustiers, and exaggerated bodies that seem to be the problem. And ultimately, what is decency? Is a bare back too much? Is lace indecent? A see-through dress, a plunging neckline—where do we draw the line? As with that infamous "republican dress code" imposed on high school girls, the notion of decency leaves room for interpretation. And behind that interpretation, always the same lens: the sexualization of the female body. Again and again.

As for the argument of practicality, it too has its limits.
Yes, a three-meter train isn't ideal for sitting in a movie theater. But if we follow that logic to its conclusion, a cocktail dress—as the press release suggests—or 12-cm heels aren't exactly the height of comfort either.
Personally, when I think of a practical outfit for going to the cinema, I think of a good old sweatshirt, not my little black dress.
Once again, it's not the practicality of the body wearing the garment that's being questioned, but rather the practicality of the external gaze. Women are asked to be practical. Not too long, not too flashy, not too much. Still not too much.

And let's remember that Cannes is not just a film festival.
On its official website, one can read: "The Festival partners several times with the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture de Paris to organize fashion shows by major Parisian fashion houses during the ceremonies, and thus promote French heritage."

We can't, on the one hand, elevate the red carpet to a sacred ritual of glamour and, on the other, demand that we blend into it with modesty. The red carpet is a spectacle. An opening, a parenthesis, sometimes even the only access that ordinary mortals like you and me have to the magic of this ceremony; it's by looking at the dresses and suits that we get a little taste of being part of it.

Ultimately, this shift towards a “return to seriousness” is not insignificant and seems to reflect a widespread desire to regain control: over image, over bodies, over who has the right to shine. While more and more voices denounce the presence of influencers on the red carpet, we too easily forget that these same content creators also fill theaters. That popular culture is, by definition, fluid, hybrid, sometimes unsettling. And that cinema doesn't protect itself by closing its doors to those who love it differently.

So perhaps it's time to remember that if we really want to put cinema back at the center, there are surely other ways to do it than deciding, once again, what a woman can or cannot wear to go see a film; if Cannes really doesn't want fashion anymore, let them get rid of the photographers and the red carpet and keep everything in the secrecy of darkened theaters.