INDIANA JONES AND THE FILMING OF THE CRYSTAL DULL

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   Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (coming soon to a Disneyland near you!) plays like a long, kitschy family reunion that your cheesy aunts and uncles whipped up as an excuse to have a barbecue in their backyard. Sure, the food's okay, but the beer is warm and flat (probably Pabst Light) and the potato salad's gone south. Everybody you remember from twenty years ago is back -- only sadder, older, and more senile. You might try to strike up a conversation. After all, at one point in your childhood, these were your buddies, your grandparents, your heroes. But sadly you realize you've got nothing in common with them now. They're a grumpy lot, prone to recalling earlier, better times you'd much rather be having. Nine out of ten times they enjoy spouting off insane psycho-babbles about alien conspiracies, Communist plots, or other things that make you think Grandpa's off his meds. After two hours, you escape to your car with your significant other. There, on the ride home, you think to yourself that it was good that you came-- after all, this might be the last time you see these guys again. But you can't help but break the silence with a sigh: "Wow . . . I mean . . . just . . . wow."

   For what it's worth, the film at least still stars Hollywood's most dependable cut of aged, half chewed jerky, Harrison Ford, returning as everybody's favorite Nazi-repellent and antiquities repot man, Indiana Jones. And thank God this wasn't a real family reunion, cause I can't imagine the spit takes I would have done . . .

ME: So, Harry! How the hell are ya?
HARRISON: Had to get my chest waxed. Wanna see?
ME: "Oh, dear God, no. Please. Put that hairless Chihuahua tarp away."
HARRISON: "Suit yourself."
ME: "So please tell me this next project of yours is gonna be good."
HARRISON: I get to fight with a cartoon snake.
ME: Huh.
HARRISON: You should hear about the flying saucers.
ME: I have to go.


   As if that wasn't bad enough, I could've run into Shia LaBeouf . . .


ME: Who the hell are you?
SHIA: Hiya! I'm Shia!
ME: Hey, aren't you that guy from Transformers? The really flaky, wormy, ineffectual, chatterbox dweeb who slimily drives around in a beat up Camero and tries to weasel his way into girls' pants by flexing his walnut sized muscles before going home and getting stuck in an argument with his mother about the wonders of masturbation?
SHIA: AND Even Stevens!
ME: And what are you doing?
SHIA: I'm the next Indiana Jones!
ME: *blink*
SHIA: No, really.
ME: Do you have a whip?
SHIA: No, but I have a comb!
ME: I'm going to the mini-bar. Please do not follow me. I need to drink alone.


   And if I'm able to somehow pull myself over to the mini-bar without having a small heart attack, I'm sure I'd find Karen Allen there, wondering why the hell she bothered to put on her jungle khakis and show up at all . . .


ME: Oh thank God! This was getting really lame. So, still drinking guys under the table?
KAREN: Not anymore. Steve says it sets a bad example for the kids, so I'm off the sauce.
ME: Yeah, but, you're still blowing smoke in Nazis' faces, eh? Heh, heh.
KAREN: George calls them death sticks. He's says I don't need any death sticks. He says I need to go home and rethink my life.
ME: That's uh . . . yeah. So what's your big contribution to this whole project?
KAREN: I drive a duck.
ME: *I hold her hand and pat her on the back*


   And that's pretty much my movie going experience summed up right there.


   The film opens with an unnecessary bit of prairie dog[1] porn. Why George Lucas wanted to hedge his opening credits bets on disease carrying marmots is anybody's guess, but the little bastards keep cropping up across this movie like "Whack-a-mole." I'm wondering if this was on purpose or if someone forgot to call the exterminator. Personally, I would've thought that an Indiana Jones film should be strong enough to stand on its own two legs without the help of digital ground rats. Then again, it's just that sort of lack of vision that's kept me from ever owning a multibillion dollar media empire and Wookie Clothing Line.

   At least the film cuts to the chase as Jones is unceremoniously dumped out of a drag-racer's trunk by a bunch of Commie-Nazis (Note to David Koepp: Simpsons did it!). There, he's brow beaten into revealing the location of a crystal skull by psychic KGB agent Irina Spalko -- played by Cate Blanchett, who struts around the movie like she's Boris and Natasha's S&M loving cousin from some Too Hot for TV episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Cate Blachett . . . God have mercy. That woman frowns and glares so much I don't think she has functioning Trigeminal nerve.

   Things only go from bad to worse as Indy is forced to find an alien autopsy box in Area 51 with the help of his turncoat friend, Mac (Ray Winstone, pulling his best John Candy from Planes Trains and Automobiles out of his hat). I have no idea who Mac is, and I'm not sure the script does either. He kind of reminds me of my Uncle Charlie. I don't know who Uncle Charlie is either, but he shows up at every family reunion claiming to know me and everyone else. He's the guy that says "Remember when ...?" when we'd rather not, laughs at inappropriate times, and insists on inserting himself into every family picture. What David Koepp's reason for including a character like this was? Not sure. But I'll bet he has an Uncle Charlie. Whatever the case, the Russians get the box.

   Awww... what happened to my big, bad Indiana Jones who could think on his feet? How about grabbing a divining dradle and finding that Lost Ark? Just say, "No, really lady -- it's okay! Pop the top and keep those eyes wide open!" Anything! Instead, he barely escapes by bungling whip-swing after whip-swing before hitching a rocket sled to Yucca Flats and riding a refrigerator out of a nuclear blast as the prairie dogs laugh their asses off. (Seriously, what's with the rodents? Enough. You're Indiana-fucking-Jones. Drop kick one of those things, will you? They're mucking up your movie!)

   If you've sat here and suddenly realized that the words rocket sled, riding a fridge, bungling, drag-racing, alien autopsy, Yucca Flats, psychic, and Prairie Dogs have all appeared in the first fifteen minutes of screen time, prepare for a bumpy ride.

   Back at the university, Indy comments that it's been a bad couple of years, losing his dad and all. Sounds like a botched casting call to me, but okay. Eventually he's hit on by Shia LaBeouf's young Mutt Williams (I know, just go with it).

   A few words on Shia LaBeouf. He is not the next Indiana Jones. He's the guy that rips my movie ticket or washes my car at the High School parking lot. Apparently Spielberg is grooming him for better things, though. And apparently he takes that literally, as Shia seems only capable of combing his greasy hair for 120 minutes of screen time. I can only assume the fifth film is going to be called Metrosexual Jones and the Last Pomade. Anyway, he explains that his mother's been kidnapped, and if he wants to save her, it's up to Jones to solve the Hardy Boys' MYSTERY OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL!!!

   What that mystery is, I have no idea. The first three films were pretty cut and dry: find the Ark, find the Stones, find the Grail. This time around, the dependably undependable Koepp dialogue goes something like this: "The Crystal Skulls were ancient artifacts carved by unknown forces worshipped in the jungles of Betelgeuse and kept by the tribes of the Oombangboogey before being stolen by the Spanish Paellas who were mummified in the Tombs of Onomatopoeia by the Burger Kings and when brought to the Lost City of the Golden Arches and placed atop the Sixth Flag of Magic Mountain will reunite the Lost Sky God of the Wutang Clan with the mecha-aliens that gave Haley Joel Osmet a birthday in A.I., thus making those Eastern block ESPers Masters of The Universe and stuff!"

   Long story short, they go to the Amazon. There they follow the trail of nutty Professor Oxly (John Hurt), who prances around in his cane and poncho cape like a wrinkly, half-crazed Planter's Mr. Peanut. What his relation is to any of this, I have no idea -- I refer you back to the plot above. Eventually, they're caught by the Commie-Nazis. There, they meet up with Indy's old flame, the abducted Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen).

   A few words on Karen Allen. You are not worthy to even be in the same room as Karen Allen. None of us are[2] . She is a vodka chugging goddess unto herself. Get any notion of you and her being on the same plane out of your head. When she smiles, you thank heaven above that you're a man (or woman). When she frowns, you find the bastard that made her cry and rip out their heart, Temple of Doom style, before serving it to her on a silver platter of Nepalese chocolate drizzled roti and rose petals[3] . That being said, she appears so frazzled and confused in this movie, that I literally think she was abducted by Spielberg's goons and simply kept in a jungle tent before being dusted off and pushed out in front of the camera. It doesn't help that she has nothing to do but chauffeur Indy and Mutt around in a military duck. I think we all owe David Koepp a round of applause for waiting 60 minutes to bring her luminous presence into this movie, only then to turn her into a glorified Wisconsin Dells[4] tour guide. It's just that sort of bold, creative decision making that gets you those coveted two-time Razzie Award nominations!

   Once in camp, Indy is forced to let the pale, emaciated, crystal skull of unspeakable power pick apart his brain. It's like being interviewed by Larry King. Indy tells the Ruskies that the skull only said one thing in the end: "Return!!!" Again, just like Larry King.

   The rest of the movie then devolves into a series of computer generated chases, cause there's nothing this series needed more than to remove all the elements that made the originals authentic and real -- like bugs, spiders, and giant boulders -- and replace them with thrilling strings of threatening computer code and blaring blasts of pyrotechnic binary! Très magnifique! I'd say the highlight was watching Mutt Williams straddle two ducks and get hit repeatedly in the crotch by sharp jungle cacti, proving once again what most of us had already suspected: Shia LaBeouf has no balls. It's good that Spielberg is giving the audience what they want. And I'm glad he's still keeping it hip -- cause nothing's cooler than watching a cartoon Shia LaBeouf swing through the air with pixelated monkeys like Disney's Tarzan! Or watching Cate Blanchette in a Moe Howard wig fence with a leather studded, tap dancing, Mouseketeer in front of a borrowed Halo 3 backdrop! Too keen! And how about watching computer generated bugs harmlessly render themselves over unsuspecting green screen actors on some ILM geek's hard drive? K-E-W-L! Remember the scarabs from The Mummy? So does Spielberg, apparently. Running out of his own material to plunder, he's now off plundering the hacks who plundered him. That's archeology the Jones way, I suppose.

   I won't give away the ending, except to say that if Ed Wood's Plan 9 from Outer Space had a $180 million dollar budget, my guess is it would look something like this. Oh, and I get it. Going the sci-fi route cause it's the 1950s is a great idea. And when George and Steve and David can finally think of a great way to do it, I'll be the first one to cheer.

   I don't know. I'm starting to think this film can't live up to the Jones I grew up with. First off, everybody's old. Fair enough, I suppose. I mean, it's not like any of these guys can, uh, live forever, heh-heh-heh . . . err. Hey, wait a second! Didn't this guy drink the Holy Grail??? Man, if I were Jones I'd march straight back to that Valley of the Crescent Moon and demand my money back, all while dangling that crusty knight over the crumbling Word of God pit and screaming, "I don't care what damn Medieval Romance language speaking country you stumbled out of, where I come from, Jehova should be spelled with a fucking 'J'!" The movie also feels a little plodding, like it missed its nap. Even John Williams' Indy theme seems slower this time around. Maybe the London Symphony Orchestra had a cold? Maybe John took Nyquil? Who knows? What I do know is that I can quote Raiders and Crusade till the day I die. But the only thing I remember from this Koepptastrophe? Jones exclaiming, "I like Ike!" to a bunch of Commies. Zing! Take that, Kruschev! And if that doesn't get it through your thicko-pinko skulls, Jones is ready to bust out a version of "I'm Just Wild About Harry!" like Michigan J. Frog!

   Eh. What can I say? As a family reunion I've had worse. Then again, I've had better. If this were a real family, I'd call for an intervention. Too late for that, I suppose. It figures -- every family needs their secret shame. I guess that can only leave one question: will I be back for the next one? Yeah, I suppose. How can I not? Love'em or hate'em, they're family. I spent my childhood with the Joneses. Sure, they maybe old and crazy and senile now, but they were there for me at an impressionable age. Try as I might, I could never really forget them. So I'll be there.

   Though you'd better believe there'll be a lot more pre-drinking involved.

   Just like Thanksgiving.

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1. prairie dog n. -- 1. any of several burrowing rodents of the genus Cynomys, of North American prairies, having a barklike cry: some are endangered. 2. George Lucas' fuzzy marketing flavor of the week.
2. Least of all me, since the judge's orders were to remain fifty yards away at all times.
3. This may have something to do with the above mentioned court order.
4. wisconsin dells n. -- 1. any of several kitschy attractions designed to draw undue attention to a series of uninteresting lake and riverside rock formations in Central Wisconsin (the most popular attraction being tours aboard amphibious cars known as "Ducks"). 2. home of House on the Rock, Tommy Bartlett's Air and Water Show, Noah's Ark, and The Cheese Factory. Origin: from the Native American word for "tourist trap."