Venice greeted cinema’s finest by laying a crimson welcome mat across physics, meteorology, and three confused canals. The carpet waved like royalty, while the lagoon quietly filed for representation.

The arrivals were choreographed with the precision of a heist movie and the sincerity of a perfume ad. Stars descended watery steps as if gravity were a suggestion and humility a rental.

Photographers perched along the barricades like migratory herons, clicking in a dialect of applause. One yelled ‘Give me pensive, but tax-deductible!’ and the universe, exhausted, complied.

Opening night promised a bold new direction that looked suspiciously like last year, but with more vowels in the title. The carpet was so long it asked for a cigarette and a map.

Footwear became ideology as guests argued with cobblestones about who owned ankle sovereignty. A visionary arrived in ‘gondola-stable platform heels’, finally bridging the gap between couture and maritime engineering.

Publicists demonstrated advanced life-saving techniques, including the recovery position for a wilting hem. One deployed a ‘pocket red carpet lint vacuum’, reviving a blazer so sharply it earned a supporting credit.

The gala orchestra hit notes only small dogs and skeptical financiers could hear. Inside, a film about opening nights opened opening night, and somewhere a mirror filed a formal complaint.

The lagoon photobombed everyone, serving reflection like an influencer serving angles. Gondoliers steered with the poise of ballet dancers and the honesty of weather apps that say ‘wear boots, just in case’.

Award statues resembled tears preserved in Murano glass, perfect for commemorating the moment you realized your three-hour epic will stream on Tuesday next to ‘Comfort Soup: The Series.’ Pigeons nodded, unionized, and demanded back-end points.

As always, hype arrived first and asked to be quoted on background. We treated it like a source to be verified, then asked the budget if belief came with receipts.

On the step-and-repeat, a star declared, ‘I’m wearing optimism,’ which looked suspiciously like water-resistant sequins. Another opted for ‘late capitalism in matte black,’ accessorized with umbrellas that matched their exit strategy.

The security line, a minimalist installation about patience, won the People’s Choice Award for Best Unfinished Trilogy. Meanwhile, the schedule did yoga; the audience did math; the snacks did their best.

By midnight the red carpet curled at the edges like a mustache pondering revolution. Gondolas punched out for overtime, the lagoon sighed, and glamour returned to its day job as algae with a publicist.