I will never forget the first time I visited Austin, TX. My friend, and fellow reject, Luke Mullen and I had driven through the night from Baton Rouge in order to make the noon showing of Grindhouse. By then, it was playing in a dingy dollar theater, but the trailers had gotten me so jazzed about it that I couldn’t have cared less where we watched it. This carefree complacence would incidentally be shattered not three hours later upon my first visit to an Alamo Drafthouse. Being that my cult movie knowledge was less-than-remedial at the time, one would think that I would have gleaned no appreciation from a throwback film like Grindhouse. But Tarantino and Rodriguez shoved the scratches, film warps, and falsely cheap production values down our throats to the point that even a visiting Martian would have been able to recognize the long-form homage. But it wasn’t until the release of Grindhouse spinoff Machete earlier this year, after two years living in Austin had afforded me a crash course in cult cinema, that I really started to understand the complaints my colleagues were voicing about these types of films. Instead of focusing time and energy to beating us over the head with the kitschy throwback facade, why weren’t adoring filmmakers simply making modern movies with that classic grindhouse spirit? For the first fifteen minutes of Faster, that is exactly what I believed we were finally seeing.