The Red-Band Trailer for Joel & Ethan Coens' newest film Burn After Reading

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

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)

I actually saw Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade before I saw Temple of Doom because, at the time, Temple of Doom was considered too frightening for the young me. Being raised in a strictly Roman Catholic household, I have also seen the final installment several more times than the other two, largely in part due to the film’s reverent consideration of Christian lore. Spielberg has said often that he made Last Crusade as way of penance for the gruesome, pagan milieu of Temple of Doom. This most certainly explains the considerable absence of the raw, rough feel of the previous two installments. Last Crusade has been varnished and whitewashed not only in content but in the look of the film – it doesn’t have the gritty, dusty, shadowed coarseness so appropriate for the dirty adventures of a rugged archaeologist. The four year gap has lessened Spielberg’s talents at evoking the right visual texture for Indiana Jones, a man often covered in spider webs, sweat, earth, and blood. Last Crusade is too polished, too fine, too sterile in the way it looks, which in turn, affects the way it feels. Where Raiders and Doom felt like they were covered in the soil and the overgrowth of the locations they were set in, Last Crusade too often looks like it was set on a soundstage. Even when Indy and Dr. Elsa Schneider (Alison Doody) descend into the grimy catacombs and collect smudges and dampness on their appearance, the cinematography does not properly capture the texture of the surroundings. It is in watching Last Crusade that one realizes how important the settings were in Raiders and Doom, both often ensconced in the swamps, thickets, and wilderness. Spielberg, in his success, has further and further secured himself in the comfort of silk interiors, and in returning to the story of a man who scrounges through vegetation and muck for a living, is preposterously reluctant to get his hands dirty.

However, once one accepts the fact that Last Crusade is not from the same template of the two cinematic classics that preceded it, there are lots of features that maintain it as a worthy addition, specifically the humor.





Ironically, the very thing that inhibits me from embracing Last Crusade as zealously as the other two is the very thing that makes it so enjoyable and pleasant, the light-hearted breeziness. It zips along with a lively good humor, while offering action sequences seemingly more so out of obligation than out of genuine interest in exploring (not good in a movie about an explorer). It is not until the tank, horse, and truck mayhem near the end that the action deactivates from autopilot, but when it does, it is enthralling.

But back to the breeziness; it is puzzling that the very thing that makes the film lose points with me is what makes the film move along faster than the other two. All three films ended with me wanting more, but Last Crusade was over minutes after it started and left me feeling more than satisfied with the poignant coda it graced on the trilogy. Funny, that.

In the end, I think Last Crusade was an essential addition. I would rather a great sequel to a great original remain untrilogized than to slap on a rote and soulless third film simply to make it an official trilogy (I’m looking at you, Coppola) but Last Crusade has got plenty of soul, despite being more than a little rote here and there.

Grade: A-


* A review of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)

* A review of Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)

In an article by Christopher Bahn, “Why ‘Raiders’ succeeds where ‘Temple’ doesn’t” he writes, “Spielberg himself says he hated ‘Temple,’ telling Premiere magazine in 1988, ‘It was too dark, too subterranean, and much too horrific.’” This seems to be why so many people are repelled by Temple of Doom along with Spielberg’s bias in casting a lesser talented actress in the lead role of Willie Scott. In fact the opening title credit makes it plain as day how biased he is as he features the woman he’s smitten with in real-life (Kate Capshaw, the future Mrs. Spielberg) in front of the fucking movie title. As for the rest of that opening musical number, I always found it annoying but have read persuasive explanations defending it. Mostly it made me wince because of Capshaw’s tin delivery.

Her acting is quite bad too, but she’s not as awful as all the Temple of Doom haters make her out to be. If anything Short Round is just as much of a lazy stock character as the high-maintenance “I broke a nail” female fish out of water – he is a stereotype and the obligatory moppet sidekick whose cuteness bludgeons the viewer like an adorable little Chinese blackjack. In fact he cannot speak without yelling obvious observations. Example: Kate Capshaw falls off her elephant and into a large puddle of water. Short Round: “All wet! Berry Funny! All wet!” Later when Indy is playing cards with him by a fire, I expected him to exclaim: “You hold cards!” and when Indy flips him a nickel in appreciation for siding with him against the complaining Willie, to wisely observe: “Me got nickel!” By the time the action gets going, Short Round and Willie mostly stop talking and the shrill whining and bludgeoning cuteness diminish considerably. This is when the movie becomes “too dark, too subterranean…too horrific” for Spielberg and where his opinion and mine separate.

The villainy of the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Last Crusade doesn’t come close to the depravity of Mola Ram (Amrish Puri) and the human sacrifice rituals he performs in honor of the evil deity, Kali. The suffering Indy is put through in Temple of Doom is unmatched in the other two. No actor can find so many nuances in varying cries of anguish as Harrison Ford. The scenes involving the voodoo doll are extremely upsetting in particular because, first of all, the tied up Indy already has his face being squeezed in the vise grip of a huge Thuggee brute, and then his voodoo doll is held over a flame, and to hear his too convincing screams of pain as he tries to struggle while having his face smashed down is just more torture than many young kids could probably endure. It does not surprise me one bit that this was one of the key films involved in passing legislation on creating the PG-13 rating. There are few PG-13 films more intense in depicting horror than Temple of Doom. The source of much of the overwhelming intensity is easy to pinpoint – it’s the sheer maniacal evil just popping out of Amrish Puri’s face...

That and the pervasive fires-of-Hell-red lighting. I have never felt that a bad situation was so out of Indiana Jones’s hands as I have during the underground Kali temple imprisonment and brainwashing.



As for the brainwashing (when Indy is forced to drink the blood of Kali) it is all effectively disturbing until Harrison Ford has to turn to the dark side. After writhing on a stone table in agony, he sits up into the light, wild-eyed. Unfortunately, affecting wild eyes does not equal appearing malevolent. It is impossible for Harrison Ford to be convincing as someone with evil intentions, which is why the end of What Lies Beneath seems so utterly unnatural and ineffective. Thankfully, Evil Indy does not last long, and the old Harrison Ford we know and love comes back with his endearing grouchiness and Ford’s stunning commitment to throw his whole being into being threatened, hurt, and thoroughly harassed by the badguys. No other action hero, besides maybe John McClane, is so amusingly and convincingly pissed off and frustrated while dealing with people trying to inflict pain on him. Really, Harrison Ford is a tour-de-force of physical acting. That’s why he can seem so inert in roles that require him to just sit and speak.

Temple of Doom scares and disgusts people, but I like being scared and disgusted, and tend to be rather liberal in my acceptance of extreme, transgressive cinema. I’ve heard Temple of Doom called “tasteless” but I think that can only be applied to the often simplistic racial depictions and the gross out banquet. The human sacrifices have a fearsome lunatic grandeur too powerful to simply be dismissed as “tasteless” or “silly.” From some angles Mola Ram’s headdress with the gargantuan horns can look a little foolish, but usually it conjures mighty satanic imagery perfect for such an underground bloodletting.







I am dismayed when I hear over and over and over how Temple of Doom is the weakest of the trilogy and blah, blah, blah. If anything the pagan occult mythology is far more suited to the purposes of what the origins of this character were. The Judeo-Christian mythology of Raiders and Last Crusade almost make those films look innocuous by comparison with the foreign, exotic supernatural forces at work in Temple of Doom. Heart-ripping human sacrifices will always be more terrifying to me than drinking water out of the wrong Grail chalice. There is more fright and horror in the underground Thuggee ceremonies than there is in the entireties of Raiders or Last Crusade, with exception to the gory finale of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Temple of Doom goes into the heart of darkness while the bookends remain timidly within the realms of white-bread danger.

I love all three films, but of all the memorable and iconic moments in the trilogy, my absolute favorite...


...is the rope-bridge stand off finale of Temple of Doom. Not just because it is the most inescapable situation Indy has ever been in, a dilemma to which there is no solution, a situation for which the only means of getting out alive would be for a deus ex machina to come out of the sky and pluck Indy from out of the death trap he’s sandwiched in, but because it proves that no matter how batshit insane a foe Indy goes up against, he will always win, because no one is more fucking crazy than Indiana Jones himself.



Grade: A


Coming Soon: A review of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)

* A review of Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Indiana Jones is the Great Equalizer - everyone from the most casual movie watcher to the most elite cinema snob will be swept into theaters sometime soon by a wave of nostalgia that’ll leave no man, woman, or child unexposed to Harrison Ford’s face, which some have said is “chiseled out of pure awesomeness.” Especially when he’s wearing the fedora, I’d agree.

The first time audiences saw the image of Ford + fedora illuminated before their eyes was a doozy. Raiders opens with a man (whose face we don’t see) being followed through the thick jungles of Peru by some natives he’s enlisted on a quest of some sort. The man, through hand motions and body language has impressed us already as...how to put this...a badass mofo. The natives have no loyalty to the mysterious man and when one of them becomes paranoid about the lethal inhabitants of the jungle, turns mutinous and pulls a gun, there is a crack from a whip and the gun is knocked from his hand. He runs into the jungle in fear, and the mysterious man moves forward from out of the shadows cast by the foliage above.

These first few scenes in Raiders of the Lost Ark: the opening credits sequence trek through the jungle, the passage through the nasty booby traps of the Idol’s Temple, the weighing of the satchel of dust next to the golden Idol, which wears a taunting look, as if daring someone to pick it up, the swinging over the pit, shot from a camera angle deep at the bottom of the pit, the boulder, Belloq and the Hovitos, the snake in the airplane; all of these moments were magical for me watching Spielberg’s film for the first time at the age of 9 or 10. And unlike some movie scenes from my youth, watching all of this again now still works that alluring sorcery on me. The iconography has hardly become dated or lost its visceral punch.

Spielberg shows an effortless ability for conveying a feeling or an idea through a strong image. You could mute the television and the film would still tell a compelling story simply through the mise en scène, the strategic use of close-ups, medium and establishing shots, and lighting. Lots and lots of striking imagery convey the internal conflicts within the characters and certain moments are framed so that negative space heightens visual tension.











We are offered a motley triumvirate of badguys. There is the ruthless Belloq (Paul Freeman, pictured left), Indy’s rival, who is more passionate about the significance of the Ark itself than the profit it will bring. There is bureaucratic head nazi, Colonel Dietrich (Wolf Kahler, below), who is running the operation and has recruited the veteran archaeologist Belloq to find the Ark, though Dietrick cares little about the historical or religious significance of the treasure so much as fulfilling his duty to Adolf. And just in case someone finds those villains too bland, there is the additional color of sadistic freak, Toht (Ronald Lacey). Lacey talks like Peter Lorre and looks extremely not Aryan in appearance (when I was 9 or 10 and first saw the film, I thought he was Asian). His character, Toht, has one of the best, most sinister entrances in movie history. Shortly after meeting Karen Allen’s character, the perfectly named Marion Ravenwood, at her bar in Nepal, Toht appears with three henchmen behind him.

After Marion is testy about handing over what he wants, the headpiece to the Staff of Ra, she finds herself being restrained and Toht standing in front of her with no intention of persuading her with his charming personality.


I think Karen Allen is pretty great as Marion. As soon as the frightening Toht and his burly thugs enter her bar and he starts giving orders, she tells him he can take his orders and shove them up his gummy hole. She’s got balls, I guess is what I’m saying, and just when you get a little irritated with her cockiness, it’ll get her in trouble and she’ll suddenly become quite amusing. For example, after Indy leaves her tied up in Belloq’s tent, she bumps into him later, literally, as she’s thrown down into the Well of Souls by the Nazis. Indy catches her and she smacks him and pushes him away, “Get your hands off of me you traitor!” and turns to see that the ground is covered with snakes. She leaps onto Indy’s back, climbing all over him, struggling to get off the ground, screaming about the snakes.

Another example would be when a Nazi shoves her into a wall, and she pokes her finger hard into his chest and commands, “Don’t. You. Touch. Me.” And then the Nazi shoves her down the hallway. These are the moments that endear her to us.

She's never on the sidelines during the action either - when Indy's got his hands full with a big bald Nazi on the airstrip...

...she clobbers the pilot of one of the planes when he’s got his pistol pointed at the back of Indy’s head.

When she sees a truckful of Nazis on their way over, she doesn't hesitate to use the plane's machineguns to mow them down.

This extended set piece on the Nazi airstrip immediately followed the suspense and escape from the sealed snake pit, and just when a 1981 audience was probably feeling its adrenaline rush starting to subside, Spielberg hits them not two minutes later with the truck chase.

[play Track 13, "Desert Chase" from John Williams' score while viewing screenshots]




























In 2008, the truck chase sequence is not as impressive, but I doubt there had been a more intense, protracted action sequence in cinema up to that date when the film first opened. Even Spielberg detractors have to admit that the man knows how to shoot a spectacular action scene. The trilogy is full of violent chases in every vehicle imaginable: truck, mine car, boat, plane, tank, horse. Some directors confuse rapid editing and incoherence with excitement but with Spielberg, you always know who is where in relation to what and he gives the viewer ample time to register what he's seeing, and isn't reluctant to show repeated establishing shots.

Ultimately the reason Raiders of the Lost Ark became so influential was because it broke ground on how an adventure film could be paced. Watching Raiders for adult cinemagoers in 1981 was akin to seeing North by Northwest opening with Mount Rushmore rather than ending with it.

Grade: A


Coming Soon: A review of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)