By now, any heisty/capery or paranoid/espionagey joint from the ’60s and ’70s has made its way to the casa, and has since been funneled into that Great Tivo/Netflix Algorithm that dictates my future viewing practices. But Steve Erickson, in using a severely maladjusted, possibly Aspbergian cineaste as his focus in Zeroville, has found the perfect vehicle to broadcast all the old-movie trivia his wife forbade him from dragging out at parties. So now it’s precursor time, the chance to go and catch up on spaghetti Westerns, Harold Hawkes joints, John Ford, all the red-meat selections I wrote off as Cliff Huxtable Saturday-afternoon hoagie-and-orange-soda fare.