A hall by the sea with the plaster still drying, a projectionist upstairs in a hot little room with a stack of reels and no chance of a rehearsal. On this day in 1946 — eighty years ago — the first Cannes Film Festival opened at last, seven years after the inaugural edition was called off when war broke out in 1939.

The stories from that first fortnight are the ones I like best. The story goes that reels went up out of order at least once, which any projectionist will tell you is the nightmare you have twice a year for the rest of your life. And the top prize was not so much awarded as distributed: roughly a dozen films shared it, near enough one for each country that had made the trip. A jury doing the kindest possible thing, which is to say no.

Both of those would be counted as shambles now. In 1946 they were beside the point. Europe had spent seven years with its cinemas dark or commandeered or gone, and here was a borrowed room full of people going quiet together while a beam of light crossed over their heads. The curtains part, the audience settles, somebody's chair squeaks. That is the whole festival, really. Everything after it is scheduling.