Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008)

It took me a while to write this because if I’d written it any sooner, my frustration and anger would have inevitably resulted in exaggerated negativity. But to claim that Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull was mediocre or unsatisfying does not come close to explaining the utter demoralization and betrayal, yes, betrayal, that I felt when it ended. I’ve read many other reviews and opinions on it and most range from “Better than Temple of Doom" (I’d like to strangle those people) to “vaguely unsatisfying, but what’d you expect?? you Indy fans are impossible to please lol!” Other reviews have blamed the fans for bugging Spielberg to do another and then when he finally did, they chastised the unhappy fans for “biting the hand that feeds them.” Well, the first time I heard about a potential fourth film back in 1998 or 1999, I prayed the idea would be aborted. And it was aborted, but unfortunately, the abortion had a fedora put on top of it and was filmed and then shown worldwide to millions of people, some who take the Indiana Jones trilogy too seriously, like me.

One has to look no further than the M&M ad featuring an anthropomorphized M&M version of Indiana Jones to know just how completely Steven Spielberg has been absorbed into the George Lucas merchandising whore machine. In an introduction to Temple of Doom, Spielberg actually refers to Lucas as his “best friend.” Spielberg, a seemingly discerning and talented filmmaker, counts the man responsible for the Star Wars prequels as his best friend.

The Star Wars prequels were Star Wars in name, but were lifeless, soulless shiny corpses propped up for no higher purpose than profit. That, and a has-been’s desperate, pathetic attempts at reclaiming cultural relevancy; George Lucas directed exactly 0 movies between 1977 and 1999. He had nothing, no ideas, no imagination, no wit, nothing except a giant tank of embalming fluid. Episodes 1, 2, and 3 were cadavers from point A to point Z, cadavers dripping with shiny preservative balms and spicy oils to disguise the putrefaction. They didn’t fool anybody. These costly husks of celluloid appear to be loathed by the majority of the people who witnessed them, and I imagine even the apologists’ numbers will dwindle as the years go by.

Steven Spielberg, seeing the defilement of popular cinema by this man

...his best friend, thought it would be a good idea to look to this same man as his muse, collaborator, and confidante in resurrecting another beloved movie franchise. Clearly Spielberg, unlike everyone else, did not feel dubious, or even slightly skeptical about how good Episodes 1 – 3 were.

Now we have this, this hollow, thoughtless, careless shedded skin of a movie, a worldwide billboard advertising Steven Spielberg's indifference to his own greatest character. Spielberg’s apathy is clear in every frame. He doesn't give a solitary shit and instead of the usual Spielbergian wonder, he brings as much enthusiasm as a kid absent-mindedly completing a homework assignment.

Even The Lost World, the relatively substanceless sequel to Jurassic Park had excitement, suspense, effort put into it. It was exciting. I was excited only twice during Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the first time when Indiana Jones finds himself in a household with ‘50s décor populated by mannequins and discovers that he’s in the middle of an artificial neighborhood about to be decimated by an atomic bomb testing, and the second when Cate Blanchett squeezes both of a sitting Harrison Ford’s knees, imagining for a moment that those were my knees.

The atomic bomb sequence is weird because Indiana Jones, in his trademark outfit, is such a funny anachronism in the fabricated suburbia of the dummy neighborhood on the testing site. But it is this very oddness that gives it the appearance of imagination, as opposed to the rest of the film, which is as lifeless, dull, and uninspired as The Mummy Returns. It is unspeakably depressing that Spielberg has cranked out a rip-off of a movie that rips off the original which he made. The Mummy has more dazzle than this. The Phantom has more conviction.

This franchise should have been cremated when it died in 1989. Lucas and Spielberg are not filmmakers, not visionaries, not directors any longer; they are grave robbers, necrophiles, and whores.



Grade: F