An Open Letter to Steven Allan Spielberg

Dear Steven Allan Spielberg,

You have made a silly movie.

Your movie is silly, and you should feel silly for having made it.

In addition to this, Steven Allan Spielberg, you have driven into the ground like so many desperate has-beens before you a beloved and revered franchise.

Finally, Steven Allan Spielberg, you have shown yourself, like Lucas and the Wachowski brothers before you, to be a one-time visionary who has since lost his verve.

It is because of these reasons, Steven Allan Spielberg, that you have earned the worst s punishment I can give you:

Me.

I will begin with the flashpoint of my war against you, Steven, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I'll admit up front, you had me as fooled as anyone. Thinking it would be wonderful to see the old Indiana magic back up on the screen. The hat, the whip, the scrappy sidekick. I was drooling, Steven, salivating at the prospect of more of your rough-and-tumble fight scenes and epic, spanning archaeological quests.

You suckered me, Steven. No one suckers me.

Why, Steven? Why does your movie sucker so badly? I will explain.

1. Henry Jones Jr... Jr: No. A valiant effort to make Shia La-Boof a viable action hero, to be sure. You did what you could. The fact of the matter is that the kid remains, no matter how much coke he slicks into his hair or time he spends ghost-noodling around a motorcycle acting as if he had the slightest idea which end was the one that went forward, he's still the motherfucker from Holes. You're not going to change that. So help me god you're not.
   
   
2. Marion Ravenwood: Who cares.
   
   
3. Monkey Army: Leave aside the Tarzanic vine brachiation for a moment, if you can pry the masochistic center of your brain away from that stunning visual. Overlook the idea that the monkeys can not only differentiate between Russian toughs and the zippy young American hero, but can then ally with and defend their newfound comrade. Forget that the monkeys are evidently opposed to communism. Steven, there has never been a movie where a monkey army was, in any way, pleasurable. There has never been a moment in modern history where any citizen of the world has experienced the thought, "Oh good. A monkey army." Ever. Not in Congo, not in Planet of the Apes, not in Wizard of Oz... Never.


4. Ever.


5. "I never should have doubted you, my friend.": I've heard less wooden dialogue from Ents.


6. Aliens. Spaceship. Interdimensional Portal: Shut up.


7. Shoebox Effects: Steven, you're known for your effects. The scene where Shania La'Bouf is straddling the two racing jeeps looks terrible, and I'm never someone to pick on things like that. I'll forgive most any visual effects travesty, like your ridiculous E.T. CGI reels or your silly Minority Report holograms. I will sit back and shut up because it's worth it. And it has been. But this... this... Steven Allan Spielberg, you broke my heart.

Steven Allan, I'm not going to waste any more bullet points on the film's shortcomings. The lack of any Judeo-Christian mythology, which was the thrust that drove the other films in your rampantly successful trilogy, the outlandishly garish CGI that would have been gauche in the late 90s, let alone now, and the complete abandonment of Cate Blanchette's superpowers which, in the beginning, was the saving grace of her character. The film unwound after Indiana left Area 51, and never managed to retie itself. It was lost in a quagmire of idol worship. The film, like Episode 1 and Revolutions before it, was a far-too-late follow-up that gave its creators, and its followers, too much time for self-reflection.

The film is a tribute to its foundation, and not a continuation as a sequel should be. In this, you have ended a franchise with a sour, sour note. Schumacher, similarly, took the helm of a wildly popular franchised and crashed it flaming into the ground. Steven Allan Spielberg, people have made films about the people who love the films you made. Steven Allan Spielberg, people have spent their lives, their lives Steven Allan Spielberg, recreating your films.

Congratulations. You have buried the nose of the good vessel Indiana Jones inexorably into the earth. Few people have ever had the ability to destroy such a cherished and honored institution.

Rarely in the past have you made more than two films in a year, and when you have you have produced such pairings as Amistad and Jurassic Park: The Lost World. You tell me, Steven Allan Spielberg, what comes from overtaxing your abilities? You get one film which is Oscar-worthy, and one where a little girl defeats a dinosaur using the uneven bars. And now, in 2009, you have no less than four films coming out. What could you have expected to come from this film, with so much else on your plate? At what cost, Steven? At what price are we to bear this burden? Yes, someone else would have eventually directed the first blockbuster, but you made Jaws. Yes, someone else would have been chosen to direct Raiders and Last Crusade, but it was you that manifested the greatest of the trilogy. No one even considers Temple of Doom a choice when considering their favorite Indy. You were the renegade, Steven. You were the rogue captain of film, pioneering and leading the new generation into greater and grander frontiers.

You've lost your teeth, Steven Allan Spielberg.

And so, Steven, it is four in the morning. I need to get up early tomorrow to work, but I have taken the time to write to you, to tell you this, to let you know what you have brought upon yourself. Steven, I see now what I must do.

I will become, Steven, your nemesis.

I will hunt you, Steven. Not to destroy you, not to end you. Joker to your Batman, Ed-209 to your Robocop, I will plague you as I would anyone that would seek to harm me and my own. I will be unto you as a stray dog that will not stop shitting on your lawn, no owner to complain to, and no humane way of stopping my onslaught. I will be like a infernal case of herpes, waiting in the humid dark, striking suddenly, fiercely, and without relent. A constant, nagging itch that will not subside.

I will be your life's antithesis, Steven Allan Spielberg. I will be the force you must work against from now until we both pass on. And if I can, Steven Allan Spielberg, I will haunt you thereafter. Forever will I hound you.

You will find no respite. No house will be your haven. I am the wind, Steven Allan Spielberg. I am the ground beneath your feet. I will be the hellhound at your gates, the scratching behind your eyes. I will become the thing which you warn your children against. Never will I burn you down, never will I annihilate you. Rather, I will scourge your life unending.

Until, Steven Allan Spielberg, until you have again done something worth a good god damn.


Sincerely,

Dead Language

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You can't immediately befriend a monkey army, you can't pretend those agents were never holding guns, and you can't kill a velociraptor with gymnastics.