Anyone who is 29 (or so) and wants to be seen as ahead of the pack, informed, with-it, and of course, cool, has seen “Stranger Than Paradise,” “8 1/2,” “Weekend,” “El Topo,” and “Geek Maggot Bingo” (okay, maybe not that one). They’ve seen Hal Hartley movies, and they’ve maybe even seen a bootleg tape of Warhol’s “Sleep.” But did you know that many of these filmmakers who define hip in the realm of hipster film are grossly and hilariously overrated? Yes, it’s true, much like musicians, college sports players and anal sex with a prostitute, indie filmmakers can be shockingly overrated! Also, the more arty and self-absorbed the filmmaker, the more profoundly overrated they become, so you can bet mother fucking Jean-Luc’s ass is on here somewhere!

So let’s get to the list. You may disagree, and you may even get mad at me. But please try to remember as you read this, I am right, and deep down, whether you know it or not, you did see Peter Greenaway’s “The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover,” and you know fucking well I am right.

Jim Jarmusch
He is more concerned with indie cool points then having a point. Makes visual carbon copies of Eastern European art films, but replaces the heavy, weighted symbolism and meaning about oppression and resistance with deadpan Honeymooners humor (and lately he has been injecting a kind of Seinfield quality to his work). Has one truly great film, “Dead Man,” and that’s the only one he didn’t have final cut on! “Night On Earth” was like a really bad collection of Italian soap opera episodes with ugly actors. “Stranger Than Paradise” is about as poignant as “Cinderfella” done by Wim Wenders, and the only cool thing about it is the original Sonic Youth drummer guy being in it. I do like “Down By Law” and “Mystery Train” to some degree, but neither film puts him above creative independent filmmakers like Alex Cox or William Klein, who get zero credit in the states. 

Nick Zedd
Imagine Richard Kern after a horrific motorcycle accident. Now imagine him high on heroin and wearing leather pants. At this moment, you are envisioning Nick Zedd. Throw in a skanky Pabst drinking bar whore cutting herself with a razor blade in front of a blue screen flashing Six Flags-like video effects, and you are imagining almost any Nick Zedd movie you can think of. Yet this guy is looked at as some kind of mysterious, confrontational and angry filmmaker who carries the weight of the New York underground film scene on his shoulders. People need to understand that filmmakers like Nick Zedd stomped on the shoulders of the New York underground film scene and turned it into one big fucking joke, a parade of death metal shock tactics (they do it better in Tampa, and not on film, in their goddamned apartments!), neutered anti-porno eroticism, and uninformed meathead politics that add up to directionless, moronic masturbation. But he does dye his hair all kinda crazy colors, dude! Keepin’ it real!

Jean-Luc Godard
Yeah, yeah, “Breathless” was so influential that some say it’s the most influential movie of all time. But just because something is an influence, that does not mean it is a good influence in any way. Think William S. Burroughs as a father figure, think the dude in the hoody standing by that chain link fence over there, think Michael Jackson as a sex therapist, think “Breathless” as an influence to future filmmakers everywhere. Godard was really the first filmmaker to use the movies to show how much he knew about the movies. He spent more time making reference to other films than he did making a movie. He turned most of his film narratives into self-referential brags and created an iconography out of surface disguised as invention (Tarantino is like Godard with his guard down). He was the first filmmaker to fit that mold of never living a life that wasn’t spent watching movies. His films were fueled by other films, not his experiences, and with the coming of Godard, went the days of real life moviemakers like John Ford, Samuel Fuller, Orson Welles, Howard Hawks, and Robert Aldrich. He made one great film, “Weekend,” a truly brilliant melding of all of his mishmash of ideas, societal upheaval, a hatred of classism, materialism, and Americanism, yet there is a strong love, albeit satirical at times, for American film, fashion, and music. So call him a genius, but don’t forget to call him a hypocritical derivative when you’re done. Every other movie he made, including “Breathless,” can be dissected on a napkin and will make you feel like you are locked in a room with a 19-year-old stoner who just watched “Shock Corridor” for the first time. Watch Robert Bresson instead, please!

Hal Hartley
I really don’t have too much to say about Hal Hartley except he has neither made a good movie, nor can he write real dialogue. He is one of those people who almost makes good movies, but once you get about an hour in, you notice that it pretty much sucks. He makes me feel let down and deflated. All he can do is frame people pleasingly, hire a good cinematographer to save his own blundering ass, and furthermore, he writes an ending about as well as Stephen King. I used to co-own a video store and we had a “respected American directors” section. Hal Hartley was not in it. People wearing untucked dress shirts would always ask me why he was not in that section, and I would reply “Because we don’t respect him, his movies are over here with the Mike Leigh and Atom Egoyan stuff”.

Guy Maddin
Since when does making silent film parody that looks like it was produced by “Saturday Night Live” make you an underground film hero? Why do respectable film critics give this guy the fucking time of day? “Heart of the World” was like being hit over the head with this guy’s film school ego, all jelly-filled, polished film symbolism. What a pompous, self-important jerk-off. “Careful” made me want to beat his “influenced” ass. And let’s not even go down that “Twilight of the Ice Nymphs” road. He seems to think he is making these authentic tributes to cinema’s early days, but all he is doing is making ADD renditions of Carl Th. Dreyer films via Godard’s near plotless influence (thanks again, Frog). Go fuck your couch, you Canadian!

Kenneth Anger
Everyone, put the magazine down for a second and ask yourself, “Do I really like Kenneth Anger movies?” Hey, welcome back. Now that we are all on the same page here, let’s try and figure out why this queeny, wannabe transgressive phony ever got to be the Grandfather of the Underground. “Scorpio Rising” is more gay than “Crusin’,” and it’s about as skillfully put together as a late-’60s Ed Wood movie (without any of the charm). “Lucifer Rising” feels about as insightful as Otto Preminger’s “Skidoo,” and Anger’s association with people like Mick Jagger and Manson Family members only makes him a name-dropping fake, not dangerous or brilliant. You just know guys like Dennis Hopper and Anton LaVey used to snap him in the ass with a towel or something. He gets credit for helping create many of the styles we might see on MTV today. Gee, thanks a lot, cocksucker!

Peter Greenaway
My absolute most hated filmmaker of all time. Name any movie he’s made, and I will start to wretch. I want to run this fucking stuffy prick over with my car...fourteen times. Never, and I mean never, has there been a more insulting, vapid, boring, laughable filmmaker (or artist, author, musician, mime, anyfuckingthing!). His films represent the absolute worst elements in art film. Take Cocteau, give him a big hard-on for overanalyzing Shakespeare along with the visual flair of the “Flashdance” set designer and you’ve got Peter Greenaway’s sorry ass. Every movie he has ever made is a steaming pile of exploitative bullshit. I have met film snobs who deem this guy one of the few true artists in cinema, and I’ve told each and every one of them “You’re lucky I don’t throw a pot of boiling coffee in your fucking face!” It’s because of this guy I feel sick whenever I see an orange or blue color jell shining over a man’s penis. And to think I used to get so much out of that!

Man Ray
The guy is considered a pillar of the experimental film community, but he only made seven movies while Stan Brakhage made over 300. Fuck Man Ray, and his American Dada ass. Go throw a whipped cream pie, or roll around in your shit or something.

Andy Warhol
Warhol couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag. Have you ever watched “Chelsea Girls?” No, I don’t mean have you heard of it, have you ever actually watched it, all the way through, from beginning to end? If you said yes, maybe you should know that Drano tastes great in beer. I once went to a screening of “Flesh For Frankenstein” and they ran a Warhol “short” before the movie that was longer than the feature. It was the Warhol film “Beauty #2.”It was the most painful movie experience of my entire life, and I saw “Arthur 2: On The Rocks” in the fucking theatre! I defy you to speak positively about a Warhol-directed film without spewing diarrhea from your mouth.