I definitely complain when warranted.
At my local repertory house, they used to have a problem with reel changes. The framing would be off at the top of a new reel, hiding subtitles or whatever. Seattle audiences, being notoriously polite, would refrain from shouting up at the booth; we’d sit there quietly, listening to indecipherable Cantonese for a couple of minutes and trusting the projectionist to figure it out. Then it would be up to me (almost always) to jump up and run out to the lobby and flag a staffer.
Another anecdote: At the downtown cinema, my wife and I were seeing Girl, Interrupted. We’re maybe halfway into it — I seem to remember something about bowling — when we distinctly smell cigarette smoke. We glance around: nothing obvious. After another minute, we hear muttering, and then more forceful muttering, obviously somebody complaining and the target responding with belligerence. This was punctuated with the unmistakable sound of liquor sloshing in a glass bottle. Again, I jumped up and went to the exit, and lo and behold I met one of Seattle’s Finest approaching the door. Apparently the projectionist had also smelled the smoke. Anyway, I led him back in and pointed to the offender, who was summarily ejected.
Also, about a year ago, I wrote a letter about a horrible local exhibitor, addressing it to three different movie companies, telling them their product was being shown in less than ideal circumstances. (Example: The bulb used to project The Time Machine was so dim that the screen didn’t have corners; the image was an elliptical blob, clear and bright only at the very center.) I never got a response, but the quality of presentation at that cinema improved dramatically about a month later. I don’t know if I had anything to do with it, but I like to think so.
I don’t always complain, though, depending on circumstances. For example, at the most recent Seattle film fest, I saw a movie from Turkey (Hejar, if you’re curious) at which I had to endure a talkative neighbor. When I shushed her, she turned to me indignantly and said, “What! You don’t even speak the language,” and went back to talking. It was a packed house, with almost no aisles, so I slouched down and gritted my teeth. Most annoyingly, when the lights came up, there was an usher sitting right on the other side of the neighbor and her friend, whose job it should have been to shut her up. Grumble grumble.
I got a petty revenge, though, in that case. I noticed as we were leaving that some stuff had fallen out of the neighbor’s purse: a comb, what looked like an address book, and assorted junk. She didn’t notice, and I sure didn’t say anything. I hope it was important and she missed it. (And on the million to one chance she’s reading this right now, I would have happily told you about your lost stuff if you hadn’t been so self-centered and inconsiderate. Cow.)
Okay, I feel better now.
