Most recently, the Library of Congress maxed out its yearly credit by inducting 25 American cinema classics such as "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," "Nostalgia," and "White Heat" into the National Film Registry. As you may or may not know, the establishment of this institution, christened in 1989, is itself responsible for breathing everlasting life into its included collection. Well, here we are. Two thousand and four years into the common-era and the permanence of a lonely 375 films to show for it.

Now, you may believe you know where I am heading with this. I am putting money on the fact that you don't. The matter of contemplation meditating itself between my mental yin and yang is the relatively murky sphere of contemporary independent film. National Film Registry eligibility requires any American film to have aged at least a decade before consideration of nomination. Generally speaking, 400 motion pictures are made throughout the course of one year, however, when counting the all-too-forgotten world of independent cinema, we're counting truck loads more.

What is quite interesting to me is that while most of our mythic predecessors of the 1970s began professional feature filmmaking in their early to mid-30s, first-time feature filmmakers today are quite a few years the younger. Today the possibility of filmmaking is undoubtedly more accessible. Yet, on the outset of the saturation bombing campaign conducted by the contemporary independent film market -- armed with everything from 35 to DV -- it seems increasingly harder to separate the treasure from the trash. Hence, the statistical probability of producing a substantial piece of cinematic art greatens while so too the reality of producing a substantial piece of cinematic shit. Touché.

While definition in itself requires conclusion, which in itself requires retrospect, I dare not haphazardly and prematurely define the voice of our new generation. And between you and me -- from one Coppola to another -- a lot has changed. So as we continue into the conversation of this enigmatic topic, are we altogether lost in translation? I do not believe this to be so. Simply put, in life as in film, many talk, but few rarely speak. And this fresh canvas is wide open. With that responsibility, how will the life of our easy riders and raging bulls imitate art? Vincent Gallo may give us our next "Mean Streets" and Fool Martyr Productions may very well be our next American Zoetrope. Only time will tell.

The greatest piece of advice I can offer comes, of course, from the lips of another; and so my humble contribution will be but to repeat it upon paper. And that is this: Time and again, to his eager students at NYU, Martin Scorsese's mentor, Haig Manoogian, repeated ceaselessly the title of this column's first commentary ...

Three-hundred and seventy-five permanent examples of cinematic possibility. We are given a gift, 25 times a year. What you do with that inspiration is your gift to us. How I look forward to you turning 10. Happy New Year.