A 20 year-old film can’t be referred to as “old” — a little faded or dusty, okay, but you can’t call it rickety or bent over. I understand that if you were born 31 years ago (like my son Jett) a film from the early ’90s might be, from your perspective, flirting with the outer perimeter of memory. My understanding is that for a film to be regarded as genuinely, seriously withered by Millennial or GenZ standards, it has to have been made in the ’80s. That, trust me, is ancient-ass history…yellowing with antiquity. Where does that leave the ’70s and ’60s, much less the classic studio era of the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s? Up in the attic, it seems. Packed away inside cardboard boxes.

Typical GenZ sentiment: “I saw this moth-eaten, older-than-shit movie about bad-ass bank robbers the other day. Al Pacino, Robert De Niro…some other guys I didn’t know. Forget the title but it was pretty good.”