Much of the hype around some of the specific breed of ‘90s indie filmmakers—Tarantino, Kevin Smith, Robert Rodriguez, et al—centered on their dedication not to the high art of cinema but to the disrespected lower tranche of movies. A young Turk like Tarantino was more apt to cite Sonny Chiba, Silver Surfer, or women-in-prison exploitation flicks than Ozu, Ford, or Welles, preferring what Pauline Kael (whose writing enthralled a young Tarantino) called “a tawdry, corrupt art for a tawdry, corrupt world.” Like with each new generation of movie brats looking to upset the old order, this attitude seemed somewhat revolutionary at the time.
