FOR A LONG TIME, it was “the movies” that people went to see. Then it was “films.” And then “indie films.” For a certain segment of the movie-going audience–and for critics stuck reviewing “Waterworld”–the indies were a godsend: highbrow fare that proved how much could be done with a literary script, unknown actors and a low budget.

Then the indies themselves changed, into something big and not so independent–morphing from “Return of the Secaucus 7” to “The English Patient.” Peter Biskind’s “Down and Dirty Pictures” (Simon & Schuster, 544 pages, $26.95) is an engaging and authoritative chronicle of this transformation, filled with business derring-do and tales of men behaving badly.

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