Over the weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of seeing the new Indiana Jones flick. Twice. I’m so close to Indy that I can’t possibly write about his movies with any sense of objectivity — he’s been in my life since I was 15 years old. ‘Nuff said.
I will, however, steadfastly refuse to surrender Indiana Jones to the disgusting Ministry of Family Values. In print, on radio, and even on the bloody MUNI, I hear people refer to the new movie as “fun, family adventure.” You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?
Fuck family adventure. When you put the word “family” in front of anything, all sorts of creepy things happen. Time slows down. People get really fat. Sodium and sugar prevail. You can smell inexpensive alcohol, hand-me-down clothes, and, in the distance, somewhere over that hill between you and the mall, you can hear the shrill caw of an unhappy parent unfairly accusing a kid of something she’s totally guilty of. Family adventure sucks.
Indiana Jones belongs to loners, outsiders, geeks, and innovators. People with dual lives, double identities, and mutually inclusive professional pursuits. Stick to your gay little Prince Caspians. I’ll take a real man with a whip, any day.