David DenbyThis space was reserved for a quick reaction to one of the season’s most buzzed-about independent releases, but instead I have a tiny tale of woe for you. Last night was the first New York screening for Juno, the comedy ominously billed as “this year’s Little Miss Sunshine,” but somebody had recklessly overbooked the screening room on Sixth Avenue. Even though we had sent RSVPs and arrived with time to spare, about a dozen of us were left standing in the lobby while the publicist counted and recounted the remaining seats. I was at the front of the line and Marcy was already inside holding a seat, so there was hope — until a voice from the back of the line spoke these blood-curdling words: “I am David Denby, from The New Yorker.

You can imagine what happened next. Now, I have no illusions about the pecking order among film critics, but — ah, let’s leave it at that. Unlike airplanes, there’s no compensation when you get bumped from a screening, except for the faint promise that next time, your RSVP might be honored. Marcy and I both left and had a drink or two toasting American Sucker.