I just got back from the Broadway Metroplex, where I was supposed to see an 11 am PIFF screening of Zoo—a film about a real life horse-fucking “club” that was discovered near Seattle two years ago. I’m excited to see it—I know the guy who wrote it, Charles Mudede (we worked together at the Stranger), and I loved his last film, Police Beat. And I know enough about the story the film tells that I’m interested to find out more. (I’ve heard the film isn’t gratuitous, though, or filled with horse fucking footage. It was one of 16 out of 856 documentaries submitted to Sundance that made it into the film festival.)

Just as the lights dimmed, I got a text message from our film editor, Erik, delivering bad news: Zoo was rescheduled to 2 pm! I ran out into the lobby to call him back, and figure out what to do. I wanted to see Zoo, not the film from Spain replacing it this morning.

As Erik excused me from the a.m. screening and assigned me the p.m. Zoo one instead, two men rushed out of the theater to alert the Northwest Film Center volunteer: Zoo was playing! I was thrilled, and rushed back in. The two men, however, were not excited—the looks on their faces was somewhere between disgust and horror that they might have shown up to see a documentary about bestiality.

Not a minute after I’d settled back into my seat, the film froze. Immediately, people around me—the theater was nearly full with Silver Screen club members who get to see PIFF flicks early—sighed with relief and start twittering like eighth graders whose teacher just announced the beginning of the sex-ed unit.

“GOOD! I did not want to see that film.”

“Yeah, it’s not on my list of films to see.”

“I was planning to leave after this film!”

The volunteer asked the uptight crowd if they wanted to see the other film instead. They cheered. I left.