Every day I’m in Cannes for the Festival I deal with an internal struggle that makes existentialist wonderings seem like a trip to the ice cream shop. Should I watch films until I drop, or spend more time at the various cocktail parties that dot the Croisette every late afternoon? Is it OK to view a film on a link while sitting at my computer, or should I make sure I get to experience each and every oeuvre on the big screen, as god intended and Cannes artistic director Thierry Frémaux insists upon? Am I allowed to choose between Jake Gyllenhaal, Tilda Swinton, Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman, Noah Baumbach or a Nespresso? Attend a dressed-down press screening or get dolled up for the black tie gala? Oh, the choices! It’s times like these I wish I could be cloned.