Note: This letter is being published here because (1) in order to contact AMC Theatres, one has to enable cookies and I didn’t want to enable cookies and (2) when I eventually was like, “Fine, I’ll enable cookies to send this,” the on-line form only allowed me one-thousand characters and this letter is, of course, two-thousand-six-hundred-fifty-seven characters (with spaces (and not including this preliminary note)).
Hi there, AMC.
I attended a screening of Avengers: Age of Ultron in theater* seven of the AMC Assembly Row 12 movie theatre this past Sunday at 4:45pm. Toward the middle of the film, I got up out of my seat (E3), hopped the special bar/barrier thing, walked across the floor to the row in front of me, and politely, yet sternly, asked a young woman who had been intermittently looking at a mobile device during the film to refrain from doing so.
That, in itself, was no big deal; we know what to expect from humans with mobile devices. The big deal was that, when I crouched down to politely, yet sternly, ask her to turn her phone off, my sunglasses, which had been dangling from my shirt collar all super-cool-like, apparently fell behind her seat. I realized this fact upon exiting the theater post-film when I tried to take my sunglasses from my collar and put them on my head; my head was there, but my sunglasses weren’t there.
So, I went back into the theater to look for my sunglasses where I was met by a team of uniformed employees cleaning the theater, which is the subject of this customer complaint.
My problem with this situation, you see, is that these people were so genuinely engaging and so incredibly and thoughtfully determined to help me find my sunglasses that it made me realize how entirely lacking every other large-chain-movie-theatre experience I’ve ever had has been. Even when I had given up all hope of finding my really-quite-stylish sunglasses, this rag-tag team of misfits (one of whom had, personally, brought a small flashlight to work, despite it not being required by the position) was lifting up cushions, looking under chairs, and asking me questions in an effort to solve the mystery â€“ all the while maintaining their unique, yet inclusive, witty back-and-forth.
The story ends with a gentleman named Leo (the only name I caught) full-on moving a seat out of the way and finding my sunglasses. The dude is my hero. I told them at the time and I’ll say it again here: These people are the Avengers of working-in-a-movie-theatre.
I really can’t believe that you have a team of people who work this well together, are this personable, and are this incredible at problem solving and you charge them with cleaning the theater post-screening.
Please promote them or do some awesome thing for them that makes their lives more bearable.
P.S. I should also note here that, in addition to my sunglasses, they unrelatedly found ANOTHER pair of sunglasses.
*It feels intuitively correct to me to refer an individual screening room in your larger “theatre” complex as a “theater,” so, that’s how it’s goin’ down.