Recognizing your saints

Every year the Sundance Film Festival seems to grow bigger, and the people seem to get ruder. Not the volunteers, of course, or the actual residents of Park City, who have every right to tell us to talk to the hand and never do, but the festivalgoers. Tonight, I went to see “Iraq in Fragments,” a boldly impressionistic documentary of Iraqi civilians during the current war. Before it started, I went on a concessions run. I’d just paid and was about to head back to the theater when a woman in a long cashmere coat on her way to the counter knocked the bag of popcorn out of my hand and proceeded to ask for her own in an expensive-sounding accent. I waited for her to turn around and at least offer a perfunctory “my bad.” She didn’t. I leaned in and said to her, “Excuse me?” She didn’t even look up. One of the two guys working behind the stand gave me the “no worries” face and offered to refill my bag. They had enough to be annoyed about without putting up with the likes of her -- like having to wear T-shirts that promote the upcoming “Pink Panther” movie. The people here are too nice.