What is it with film critics and complete and utter tactlessness? After today's NYFF screening of the fascinating Wiseman-like documentary "10th District Court," as the credits began to roll over silence, whaddya know, another LOUD FART snapped me out of my pleasant reverie. Are these people kidding me? And it's not as if this is the first time that has happened. I remember settling in one morning a few years ago as the curtains opened in preparation for the New Directors/New Films press screening of "Raising Victor Vargas," when the guy seated two seats away from me let out a MASSIVE HONKER. It was so obscene that I thought he had done it as some sort of "challenge" to me, but when I glanced over at him he was simply staring at the screen as if his ass hadn't just caused our row to quake. It was as if it hadn't happened at all. There are countless more examples (not just farts, lots and lots of burps as well) that I won't bother getting into right now. Suffice to say, I might start wearing a surgical mask to press screenings from now on.
Have critics simply become so detached from reality--forced to sit in a blackened, comatic state for hours and hours, then forced to sit alone and write about what they've just witnessed--that they have completely and totally lost their sense of self-awareness?
Note to friends/acquaintances/coworkers/strangers: If you ever overhear me FARTING LOUDLY in public and not shrinking in embarrassment or looking for the nearest body of water in which to drown myself, please suggest I devote myself to another line of work. Thank you.