Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: allen, and, blockbuster, ford, four, george, harrison, hit, indiana, jones, karen, kingdom, lucas, movies, of, skull, spielberg, stephen, summer, the, the crystal
On the way to the theater for the 12:01am premiere of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, I started thinking back to my Kindergarten years. They gave us a small yearbook when we moved up to elementary school, and in it, each child had a photograph along with their name and what they wanted to be when they grew up. After watching Indy fight the Nazis and Thuggies, I decided I was going to be an archaeologist. Of course, my idea of archeology was just a tad skewed.
Indiana Jones was the hero of my childhood, and I feel that is necessary to share because it’s had a massive impact on how I’ve judged Spielberg’s fourth installment. When I walked into the theater, I had two strong, conflicting emotions battling for my expectation rights. On one hand, I understood that the 65 year old Harrison Ford and the disposable C.G. that comes with this new generation of film-making couldn’t possibly recreate the magic of the originally three. On the other, I simply couldn’t even imagine watching Indiana Jones grace the silver screen without being completely blown away.
I’ve now seen the film, and this is the best way to describe what it felt like…
Picture your favorite band from “back in the day,” whenever that day may be for you. Remember how euphoric it was the first time you saw them live? Now, think about what it was like when you saw the old band on their recent reunion tour. You’re a little older, a little grayer, and you walked out of that reunion show and said to yourself “Wow… that was incredible. Really reminded me of the old days.” It certainly was a hell of a time. But when you saw that very first show, you walked out saying “Wow… that was incredible. That was the best God Damn night of my life.”
That is basically how I felt when leaving the theater after the fourth Indiana Jones. I was entertained, never bored, and enjoyed every minute of the action. The only problem was that I was enjoying it because it reminded me of a time when the series was at it’s peak, and obviously, the mountain will never stand taller than the peak itself. Spielberg and George Lucas were faced with the nearly impossible task of remaining true to the comic book feel that made the first three films so wonderful, while simultaneously creating a truly original fourth film. In some ways they were triumphant. In others, they made you wonder if it really was worth this last hurrah.
Kingdom of the Crystal Skull takes place in the year 1957, with the Cold War as the historical backdrop. In many of the reviews I read before seeing the film, the writers seemed to find it acceptable to post “NO SPOILERS” at the top of their review, and then proceeded to tell me all about the opening scene. To me, just because the details of a scene don’t necessarily reveal the plot doesn’t mean I want to know about it. With that in mind, I will keep the opening details to a bare minimum, but lets just say it takes place somewhere we’ve seen before. The film opens, quite literally with a bang, and we’re given a quick lesson on what to expect out of the aging Harrison Ford for the next two hours.
I obviously knew going in that Ford wasn’t the young man he was in the 1980s, but I told myself he’s stayed in shape, has aged very nicely, and the wrinkles would only mean a slightly slower Indiana. This is the area that I was probably most disappointed in — disappointed that I set myself up for failure, and disappointed that the Holy Grail’s powers couldn’t pass beyond the Great Seal.
What people don’t realize is that there is way more that goes into aging then how a person looks. With the exception of a few fleeting moments where the his voice reached a level of urgency and excitement, Ford struck me as an old man trying to be young again. I tried as hard as I possibly could to look at him with the same awe that I did in the first three, but no matter how hard I tried, I kept seeing a very distant character. It’s hard to explain, really. The man just… moved old. Slightly hunched over, with a more “I’ve seen it all, before.” grin on his face. There were plenty of moments in Indy IV where Jones’ discoveries could’ve blown the eyes right out of his head, but it just seemed that he had lost his admiration for magic. Because of this, the few times that Ford did anti up the excitement, it felt like Spielberg was waiting for the last possible second before we lost faith in our hero all together.
This became very evident in some of the action sequences. Indiana’s new sidekick, Mutt Williams (played by Shia LaBeouf), took on just as much of the fighting, if not more than Indy. I had a huge problem with that. Again, I understand that Ford can only do so much at this juncture in life, but that doesn’t change that fact that I was longing to see him in many more breath-taking battles than I was given. It’s not to say that LaBeouf didn’t play the roll well, it’s just that he wasn’t what I came to see.
All that being said, Ford did a fine job — a job that 99.9% of the people his age couldn’t dream of doing. In reality, it wasn’t even his fault. Remember the part in Temple of Doom where Indy leaned back and pushed the fedora in front of his eyes and went to sleep on the plane? It came off like the hero was bored with yet another woman yapping in his ear and he needed some shut-eye before the next adventure. When Indy would take any type of rest in indy IV, whether it be napping or just slouching, it didn’t have that same effect. He just seemed old, and there was nothing Ford, Spielberg, or Lucas could do about it.
My only other major complaint about the film is a very popular one, and that is the ridiculously unnecessary C.G. use. I wouldn’t even be that mad about it if Spielberg didn’t promise us in every damn interview he did that the movie would look like it was made in 1993. For the most part, it was actually pretty noninvasive. The problem was that it would make it’s appearances in the most important parts of the movie. Just when I was wanting something real, or at the very least reminiscent of the old action, I was force-fed the garbage that is ruining all modern action movies. I hate to make this analogy because it’s been done 50 dozen times already, but there were moments when felt like I was watching National Treasure and not Indiana Jones.
Now to the good stuff…
John Williams’ score was, as always, magnificent. I’m sure if I see the movie a few times I’ll be able to listen to the music on my i-pod and remember the scenes that the music was playing in. I might actually rank it the 2nd best musical score, closely following The Last Crusade. As I’m sure you know, Indy’s girl in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Marion Ravenwood (played by Karen Allen) has returned, and the familiar tune that came with her presence in the first movie has returned as well. There are just enough alterations in the theme to remind us that we’re involved in something new, but it’s close enough that we know it’s Indiana Jones.
Ravenwood’s character was less of a presence than I thought she’d be. When she was vocal, her personality was well established and right on cue with where we left her in Raiders, but those moments were a bit less frequent than I would have imagined. She’s actually aged a little better than Harrison Ford has. For any of you who’ve seen Rocky 6 (IF NOT, DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING), the love of Rocky’s life, Adrian, passed away before the film took place, and they introduced a younger woman as the lead female. She wasn’t necessarily a romantic interest of Rocky, but she was the main woman in his life in that movie.
Spielberg chose to keep the older Ravenwood as the lead female and not cave into the pressure of having a 20-something beauty in that roll — and boy was it refreshing. Yeah, Indy was the ultimate man when it came to the ladies, but it would have been absurd to have him hooking up with someone 40 years younger than him, and it would have been insulting to have a young woman romantically interested in another character. There’s something to be said for having characters you care about, regardless of how unmarketable they may be. I believe that people will come to love that the original duo is back together and we don’t have to hear Kate Upshaw screeching for two hours…
…just kidding, I loved Willie Scott.
One very minor complaint here I forgot to mention. This may sound crazy, but I swear I can’t remember many times in the movie where they actually referred to Indiana Jones as… well… Indiana Jones. More often than not, for whatever God forsaken reason, they were calling him by his birth name: Henry Jones Jr. I know it shouldn’t be a huge deal, and I guess it’s not. It’s just that when you’re trying to revamp something with a sense of nostalgia behind it, one of the biggest parts of that is bringing back the names the audience identifies with. Who knows, maybe on a 2nd or 3rd tour of the film I’ll see that they actually call him Indy or Indiana a lot — just my first impression.
Finally, I’ll close with this… The Crystal Skull. In Raiders we had the Ark of the Covenant. The sacred stones were the subject of Temple of Doom, and of course, The Holy Grail was the magic behind The Last Crusade. For reasons I won’t share in this review, a lot of people will have a problem with the nature of Indy’s quest in this last chapter. What I can tell you, since it’s very obvious, is that the skull has no biblical implications. Temple of Doom deviated from that concept too, and the end result was less praise than the other two films got. It seems that when Raiders of the Lost Ark debuted, people were so blown away that they couldn’t possibly have Indy doing anything except chasing Bible references while fighting off the Nazis. If your the type that needs that original story in place then Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is not for you.
The nature of this fourth artifact is something that I personally didn’t have a problem with, but I would absolutely understand it if others do. It comes from a subject that unlike Bible related concepts, many don’t really consider to be a real possibility. It’s far less religious and far more science fiction, but if you allow yourself to believe in the chase just a little bit, I think you’re opening doors that’ll really let you enjoy the movie.
Shit, one last little complaint I forgot. Call me a sexist if you’d like, but this is honestly how I feel and I can’t change it. There is nothing intimidating to me about a female villain. Cate Blanchett did all she could to make Irina Spalko seem as disgusting as imaginable, but it just didn’t do it for me when Indy had to gently shove her out of a truck rather than punching her in the face.
Basically, what I’ve been asking myself is this. I know the action sequences were great, I know Indy was older but still the hero, and I know that Spielberg did everything he could to recreate something that hasn’t existed in nearly twenty years. The big question is: Did the sum of the parts equal the hole, or was this just another new age film that keeps you interested with no redeeming qualities when the closing credits start to roll?
The answer is yes… this movie works. It’s not a resounding yes, and it’s not a yes that I’ve come to lightly. There were a lot of things about the movie that didn’t do it for me, and collectively, they almost had me wishing that the film was never made. But now, when I sit back and think about it, I’ve realized that there’s nothing I can do about it — I love this character. He’s the greatest action hero of our lifetime and Stephen Spielberg didn’t make a mochary of it. He didn’t change to a younger actor and he didn’t let him ride off into the sunset when there was still one more story to be told. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, to me, was the fourth best of the four Indiana Jones movies, but it’s still Indiana Jones. It’s still better than most movies I’ve seen because it’s the action hero I grew up idolizing.
The truth is, when you create a character as wonderful as Indy, you’d have to diabolically fuck it up to ruin him. In spite of my rantings about the old days and how much I loved Indy as a child, I want to make it clear that my enjoyment of this fourth movie is not strictly the result of nostalgic embraces. It really does have a handful of unique qualities that fit in this film and this film only. The other three were better, but this one belongs in their league. Really, that’s all I could’ve hoped for.
Filed under: Fiction | Tags: are, blueish, cold, eric, hot, leaves, michael, story, the, turning, walsh, warm, weather, white
I was the type of guy that turned the thermostat up to 80 degrees so that the apartment felt like a sauna when Eric got home around eight. Inevitably, he’d turn it down to a reasonable temperature once he got in, leaving me about a thirty minute window to enjoy the warmth before the cool down. I’d brew decaf coffee, make hot chocolate or hot apple cider while wearing thermal underwear and sweats from head to toe. In fleeting moments where I lost all sense of self-respect I even wore a one-zy. My bed had four layers of sheets. Each of the three windows in our apartment were super-insulated with a product I bought just after two in the morning from an infomercial, and I swear they work just like the bearded man said.
Eric already thought I was partially psychotic, and I’m sure heating our place up to a Hell on Earth didn’t do much to cool down that sentiment. His college sweetheart divorced him after a run-in with a prostitute fully-equipped with cocaine and big mouth. Thousands of hookers walking the streets of New York City and he has to pick the one with some sort of epiphany the night he calls her. I never got the full story, but apparently the girl lost her cool and became totally disgusted with all men at the sight of Eric’s penis, took his cell phone into the bathroom of their hotel suite and called his wife. Two weeks later, I no longer had a guest room.
I suppose that’s why Eric never really bitched about the ridiculous temperatures. He was grateful to have somewhere to go. It took him two months just to get the nerve to sneak out of his room in the middle of the night to turn it down. I’d be sprawled out full-eagle on the sofa, eyes closed, ears fully functioning, listening to him tip-toe along the perimeter of the coffee table. Every now and then he’d stub a toe or knock his phony-bone on the entertainment center, trying to hold down obscenities as if they were burritos that just weren’t sitting right. The wounded, sweating warrior would then feel his way back into his bedroom, and I’d soon follow suit when it cooled down to the point where I needed my blankets.
The months passed, Eric continued to pay his half of the rent, and he soon found himself comfortable enough to make the changes he needed to feel at home. Bare spots on the walls were eventually covered with signed New York Yankee photographs, jerseys and old Yankee newspaper headlines. As a very casual Met fan I didn’t really give a shit. He changed our cable subscription so that it included packages for every sport you could imagine. You’ve never seen pathetic until you’ve seen the two of us fighting over the remote at midnight on a Saturday — him fighting for Bass Fishing, me for Animal Planet.
One evening, after spending God knows how many hours at the University, I walked in on a drunken Eric struggling with the microwave. It was the night of “the bug game” — some pitcher on the Yankees was swarmed by a bunch of flies in the 8th inning and couldn’t throw strikes, causing the Yankees to lose a playoff game. He decided the best way to handle this was to kill a case of beer and a bottle of Jack. Keep in mind we’re talking about a 38 year old Penn State grad and an immensely successful trial lawyer. The same man who got rape charges dropped on a client who’s DNA stained his accuser’s thighs couldn’t navigate his fingers on our microwave. Maybe it was the wing sauce.
Eric liked things his way, and the place continued to tailor itself to the ways of my best friend and my favorite alcoholic. That being said, the guy understood that the only thing I cared about was staying warm. Yeah, he’d turn down the thermostat as soon as he got in — no healthy human couldn’t — but he never once complained about the way the place was on fire upon his arrival. I wasn’t the type who’d converse about the things I was passionate about. I rarely brought up Kate, and I referred to my students like an infestation I’d rid myself of at the end of every semester. Really, all I ever talked about with any emotion was how much I despised frigid temperatures. He respected that, and to be honest that’s all I could ask for out of a roommate.
My obsession with staying warm makes the current predicament so exceptionally ironic. Eric hasn’t said anything for about six hours. Neither have I. It was cold this time yesterday, but right now I can feel nothing in any of my extremities. I know I’m conscious because every now and then a stiff breeze rolls through and my cheeks tingle from the chill. I opened my eyes a few minutes ago to see Eric’s open as well, although totally lifeless. They’re glassed over solid, almost frozen. The tips of his ears and nose are rotted dark green from the frostbite, and inch long icicles dangle from the edge of his lips. A pool of blood stains the snow along the side of his torso. Eric’s dead — probably has been for hours. I think I’ve been awake for quite some time, but for all I know I may have been out until the moment I opened my eyes. I’d cry but the tears would freeze on my cheeks and I don’t want to lose feeling the one place I still have it.
Hope is a strange thing. Even the most negative, diabolically depressed people have faith in their passion — paranoia, hatred, jealousy — they’ll keep these passions alive, clinging to the idea that they’ll be able to rectify their demons. There’s hope, even the worst sense. I sat there along the side of the west mountains trying to remember what it felt like to love somebody. To hate somebody. To believe in the idea that love and hate were real to begin with. Three days on a mountain destroyed thirty-six years of hope.
The evergreens were coated with meandering, sporadic snow, clinging to the places where the gravity was weak. I felt conflicted. Lost and hidden from anyone who could help. Confined. Almost peaceful that my helplessness went unjudged. The sun was setting behind the evergreens and rays streamed through the branches like a 3D film. Visible. Consistent. Alive to the eye. Worthless to the body. It’s warmth was a myth. It’s power a cruel joke. Never before had the sunset felt so much like dawn.
When we first fell to the mercy of the avalanche my hope was very real. I thought of this heroic fight for survival, skiing like never before with death quite literally pushing at our heels. Eric would be parallel with me, stride for stride, completing the dynamic duo that thrived under the worst possible circumstances. We’d tell the story with close friends and strange women scattered around our coffee table, rain flowing down our perfectly insulated windows, thunder rumbling harmlessly in the distance. Animal Planet could be on the television.
When Kate and I were in grade school, we’d cuddle together in the basement of her father’s house. He’d turn out the lights and make his way down the stairs, grunting and growling as he inched closer and closer. Our giggles turned to screams and back to laughter as he banged the floor, stomping his way towards us. When he’d finally arrive, he’d grab one of us by the leg and pinch our ankles like any vicious monster would. The escaping child would run towards the stairs where the light from the living room streamed from underneath the door — that is until being pushed open so the light could take over basement, saving the other child. Kate’s dad would writhe in pain as the light pierced through his monster skin, slowly killing him. The other child would run back up the stairs to the hero while the monster remained in the basement. We’d slam the door and listen to his screams until we heard nothing more.
