So I don’t want to be a complete little pissy bitch, but awards season is of course upon us, so there are not only myriad reviews to write but also Best of 2006 lists to start considering and, more pressingly, awards voting deadlines. And it’s confounding and quite irritating, some of the incompetence and outright… well, let’s say conflicting stories one encounters in pursuing all sorts of screening schedules. It’s certainly interesting, in a bemusing sort of way, to see which
studios actively court and/or welcome critical reception, and on which films.
The words “Do you know who I am?” shall never pass my lips, I promise, but as an accredited member of the Los Angeles Film Critics Association I really don’t think I should have this much trouble seeing, let’s say, Dreamgirls. Receiving an all-media screening invitation after the date(s) of said screenings is one thing. Arriving straight from driving across town from another screening, five minutes in advance of an appointed time to a screening which you RSVPed to earlier in the week (and received email confirmation), only to be told that the screening is full and closed is… well, frustrating.
More irritating, though, are smug, officious and/or unhelpful studio lot security guards. I’ve got absolutely no beef with the normal working man (or woman), believe me. But some of these folks are officially on my shit list. And when I say I “some,” I might be talking about folks at Warner Bros. When one courteously inquires as to whether someone from the publicity department — someone working a screening on the lot, someone 30 to 40 yards away — can be contacted to help resolve a matter, and is met with both a dismissiveness and rudeness that continually fails to address said specific question, well, I take affront at that, since after all I’m merely attempting to execute my occupational duty, ostensibly just like you. Through your own ineptitude, you help escalate the situation, actually.
In the spirit of the holidays, I’ll refrain from wishing you a flaming sack of shit for your top-shelf douchebaggery, mustachioed WB lot officer. What’s that… I already typed it? Oh well. What’re you gonna do? I can’t seem to find that backspace key. Merry Christmas!