It’s not well-made, not well-acted and its humor isn’t much more clever than the average straight-to-video sex comedy, but Kevin Smith’s first film is still a classic as long as anyone works (or can’t shake the memory of working) a crappy customer service job. No other movie gets under the skin of the situation like this one.
That requires a real life set that isn’t created, cleaned up or lit by industry professionals. It’s also best if the cast are unknowns of average looks. And it helps a lot if the writer/director is a humble amateur, still figuring out what he’s doing, working with his friends, writing what he knows and maxing out his credit cards to get it on film. The result was a sensation of the 90s independent film boom, a lowbrow comedy that got stupid dick jokes and clock-punching bitterness into the arthouses, and it wasn’t a bad fit.
High profile success in the new wave of young American filmmakers was partly about finding niches. Quentin Tarantino had the Los Angeles organized crime guys covered. John Singleton broke ground for South Central Los Angeles in the movies. Richard Linklater (whose Slacker Smith cites as a key inspiration) gave us looks at the weirdos and bohemians of Austin, TX. Gus Van Sant had the seamy side of the Pacific Northwest all sewn up. Nearly every borough and surrounding area of New York City had a filmmaker who made hay of its drama, comedy, danger or all three.
Amid all of this, no one in movies had yet to speak up loud and clear for New Jersey trash and minimum wage cashiers. That stroke earns this film’s place as Kevin Smith’s signature work over two decades later.