At last, people can dance in Venice without breaking a sweat.

All that remains are the awards, but otherwise Venice 83 is over. Only a few of us diehards remain on the Lido; most have left, dragging their trolleys back to the real life that awaits them – with washing to do, children to drop off and pick up, and collection notices in the letterbox. To add a note of melancholy, as in any proper finale, rain has set in as well, accompanied by the mistral; the result is that water is coming from every direction – even from below, especially from below – and it is impossible not to get wet. The sky is leaden, the sea a vast expanse of breaking waves, and the beach umbrellas, though closed, flutter in the wind: we’re well past ‘summer’s ending’; this is autumn beginning.

Attendees at the Film Festival are feeling the chill; they are pulling out their jackets and wearing closed-toe shoes, whilst Malcom Pagani rushes off to buy a jumper for the evening; I am the only one who is not fazed – in fact, I am enjoying this stormy weather, which is sweeping away the hottest summer ever – whilst waiting for the next one, which will break even this record. The sole drawback is that I must attend parties equipped with an umbrella (which, given the wind, cannot be one of the small models—else it will be blown away—so it must be a large one); I attempt to appear somewhat British, but the reality is that holding this umbrella for the entire event makes me feel somewhat foolish, akin to being left holding a broom at the conclusion of the ‘Broom Dance’. I could put it down, of course; but then I’d have to remember to pick it up before I leave, which isn’t easy after the third spritz. Thanks to the drop in temperatures, at the party for the Peccato series by and starring Emanuela Fanelli, we can finally dance without breaking a sweat.

Although I have not seen the series, if it is anything like the party, it appears to have been a complete success: there were fried snacks (crisps, mozzarella balls, stuffed olives), cold cuts, and at one point even pizza was served. PIZZA. As I devour two slices, I reflect on the fact that this year, at parties, people have generally eaten more – in the sense that there was actually food to eat, because in previous years there was literally nothing to put in your mouth. I’d been told that a lack of food at parties is a sign of poverty; catering is the most expensive thing. So has the money come back? But where from? Out there we’ve got inflation, the energy crisis, cuts to everything; where’s the money for the pizza coming from? Who cares, I’ll have another slice. Then I head over to the Campari lounge, where the party for Sala Grande – a magazine dedicated to cinema (successor to the late Ciak) – is being held; it was launched just a few days ago to coincide with the Festival. According to organisers, more than two hundred guests were invited, although not all attended. Nevertheless, Ronn Moss, Karla Sofía Gascón and several other recognisable figures from the “you know, what’s his name, come on” category are present. The inclement weather outside has turned the event into a shelter from the rain and a refuge from the cold, while the open bar keeps everyone warm. The result is a mountain chalet atmosphere: you know that time at five in the afternoon in ski resorts, when the slopes close and everyone floods into the bars? Well, exactly that situation, but with champagne and shaken Campari instead of bombardino. The more intimate setting of this party encourages socialising; people are drawing away to the sofas, getting closer to keep warm… After all, the night here at the Lido di Venezia is still young, and in the meantime, it has even stopped raining outside.