Joel Murphy

Today, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull opens in theaters nationwide. I have mixed feelings about this movie. On the one hand, I absolutely think it is going to be terrible – Harrison Ford seems a little old for an action-adventure star, the plot seems uninspired and Shia LaBeouf seems like a poor substitute for “Short Round.” On the other hand, I loved the Indiana Jones movies as a kid and would relish the opportunity to see an Indiana Jones movie in the theater, for nostalgia’s sake.

At first, I didn’t think much of this desire to go see the film. I have seen the original three Indiana Jones movies countless times. My grandparents had all three films on VHS, so when I spent a few weeks with them during my summer vacations, I would watch the Indiana Jones and Star Wars films over and over again. So being suckered into seeing this new film hardly seems surprising. But then, I began to dig deeper and to try to figure out exactly what it was that was convincing me to see an uninspired update of the franchise instead of simply re-watching the original three films. Why would I give up my hard-earned cash to watch what was basically an Indiana Jones reunion special?

Those of you who read this column regularly know my feelings on the endless parade of Hollywood remakes and sequels. I get frustrated every time I see another bit of my childhood (Transformers, Alvin and the Chimpmunks,G.I. Joe) bastardized on the big screen. And yet, as Hollywood continues on this latest trend of using the original actors to make sequels to long dormant franchises, I have trouble summoning up the same level of disdain. Frankly, that’s because the formula works.

The problem with most remakes is that the completely disregard the source material. They take something we have a collective fondness of (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Dukes of Hazzard, Get Smart) and try to adapt and modernize it until somehow the end results becomes completely devoid of everything that made the original so special. The actors they hire to fill the roles feel like they are playing dress up, wearing the costumes of our beloved characters, but falling well short of actually embodying the roles they’re trying to play.

But sequels like this new Indiana Jones film tend to work better – instead of replacing the original actors with the Ben Stillers or Sean William Scotts of the world and completely revamping the characters to make them fit into modern times, you get the original actors reprising the iconic roles that we all love. Even if the plot isn’t as good as the original and the hero is looking a bit older and slower than he did before, it’s still nice to once again see Bruce Willis kick ass as John McClane or Sylvester Stallone lace up the gloves for a final bout as Rocky Balboa (even if he has a scary plastic surgery face now). There is something comforting about seeing the characters we love alive again on screen.

And it isn’t just stagnant film franchises that are getting in on this new trend. This summer, both the Sex and the City and The X-Files franchises have movies coming out featuring the original actors reprising their beloved roles and I’m positive many other popular television shows are sure to follow. These movies are counting on the fact that we will all pay good money to get another chance to see Gillian Anderson’s Detective Scully delivering a dry, sarcastic one-liner or Kim Cattrall’s Samantha Jones letting a dozen guys half her age run a train on her (again).

The reason I think these movies do so well is that they capitalize on human nature. Shows like The X-Files and Sex and the City go off the air because they start to get stale. The plots start getting forced and repetitive or, in the case of The X-Files, one of the stars decides to leave the show, and we gradually begin to grow weary of these programs. For movies like Die Hard and Indiana Jones, the sequels start to feel like tired retreads of the original movie, and we lose the desire to keep handing over our hard-earned cash to see the same formula over and over again. But, as time goes by, we begin to romanticize these shows and movies and we begin to overlook their faults. Newer, crappier movies come out and suddenly we begin pining for the old days of Indiana Jones and John McClane.

I think it’s similar to going through a bad breakup with a girlfriend. At first, you are just ready to be done with it and to move on with your life. But as time goes by, you begin forgetting about all the things the girl did wrong and you focus on how empty your life feels without her. Movies like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and Live Free or Die Hard are the cinematic equivalent of the drunken 2 a.m. booty call hookup with that ex – one last hurrah for old times’ sake.

So I say we all go give Indiana Jones one last roll in the hay before we move on to a younger, hotter film franchise that will give us all of the things Dr. Jones was too uptight and old-fashioned to do for us. Okay, it’s time to abandon this metaphor before it gets any creepier …

In summation, while I am still calling for an end to all of the uninspired remakes and to the copious amount of modern sequels that Hollywood continues to churn out, I still think the cinematic resurgence of a forgotten film franchise can be an enjoyable thing in small doses. Of course, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m saying all of this in the hope that this trend will continue long enough that is eventually gives us a Quantum Leap movie featuring Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell. Oh boy, would that be awesome.

Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go drunk dial Fandango to set up a late night rendezvous with Indian Jones.

Random Thought of the Week:

My boo and I can’t help but think that David Archuleta’s loss on American Idol last night has something to do with the fact that he didn’t sing nearly enough Chris Brown songs.

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … The Shawshank Redemption‘s inspirational message.

I wasted another two hours of my life last weekend watching The Shawshank Redemption for the 247th time. It’s one of those movies I have to watch every time I come across it, like Rocky, Kingpin or anything starring Helena Bonham Carter. This can be quite time consuming, because, just as the sun never set on the British Empire, Shawshank is showing on some station right now. That is, if your cable package is worth a good squirt of piss. Go to your TV and test this. See, right there on channel 268! And it’s over in 40 minutes. Start watching now or you’ll miss seeing Andy crawl through that river of shit.

I’m not asserting that the movie itself is overrated. Any movie that’s almost impossible not to watch has a greatness to it. What is overrated is our reaction to it as a “feel good” movie. We ought to be overwhelmed with anger and loathing every time we watch it, but instead we are manipulated into a case of the warm fuzzies for a bunch of long-term felons who probably wreaked more emotional havoc than three 9-11′s.

Let’s start with the overall prison population in the movie. The cons in general are the most docile, tame-looking prisoners this side of Hogan’s Heroes. When Andy and Red are shooting the shit in the yard, the rest of the prisoners loll about unthreateningly in the background. I’ve never been to a prison and I don’t intend to end up in one (They’ll never find the body. She was a cinch to bury. She was too tiny, you know?), but I’ll wager that there ain’t a prison yard in America as safe and harmless as the one in Shawshank.

It’s also laughingly, overwhelmingly white. I know the movie takes place 40-50 years ago, but even then this country was passionately engaged in one of its favorite pastimes: locking up colored folks at a disproportionate rate. Other than Red, I don’t recall seeing another black man in the movie. But that’s probably savvy casting, as the producers wisely figured that white America would see them as the “bad” prisoners, thus voiding the misplaced sympathy we are duped into feeling for the white human trash that makes up Shawshank.

Then we have the scene when the lovable louts are watching a movie and Rita Hayworth makes her grand appearance to obscenity-free (yeah, right) hoots of appreciation. We are supposed to feel sorry for the loveless blokes who can no longer enjoy the company of a beautiful woman. The moviemakers fail to remind us of the fact that most of these scumbags are incarcerated for heinous crimes, many of which probably involve women. In a real prison, when Ms. Hotshit makes her grand entrance, one third of the men would fantasize about raping her, one third would dream of stealing everything she owns (after raping her) and the last third would dream of slitting her throat (after raping her and stealing her shit). But we see their innocent longing and say, “Awwww! Poor horny fellas.”

None of those scenes are as pathetic as the one in which the men hear the Mozart song blasted over the P.A. by rabble-rousing rebel Andy Dufresne. We have a yard full of hardcore felons reduced to wide-eyed awe by Herr Mozart, and they stare longingly at the sky, wishing, I suppose, for freedom … so that they can dismember another body or rob a few more banks. The only scene in movie history cornier than that one was Tom Hanks’ overwrought Opera Appreciation scene in Philadelphia. [Caution: If you watch these two scenes back to back, you will suffer great neck pain as a result of the extreme cringing they elicit.]

The movie also tricks us into adoring and pulling for some of the individual cons. Take Brooks. That lowlife fucker served most of his life in prison for some god-awful crime, yet we’re supposed to see him as the lovable old fart who wouldn’t harm a fly, or at least his dirty pet bird. However, he would hurt a fellow inmate and friend, if you recall the scene where he nearly slits another dirtbag convict’s throat. The incorrigible old bastard should have been reported the parole board right then and there so that they could rescind the parole he’d been so stupidly granted.

Then the dumbshit can’t even handle a job bagging groceries. The grocery store near my house hires the occasional ‘tard or two to bag groceries, and they pick up this Einsteinian task in a day or two. But this dipshit just can’t grasp the concept of not putting 32 pounds of groceries into one paper bag. The only thing he and his thick sausage fingers were good for was committing major felonies. And being that he spent the bulk of his life in jail, I guess he sucked at that, too.

We’re also tricked into seeing the grocery store owner as some sort of hump for the way he treats the Shawshank graduates. Just how nice and accommodating is he supposed to be? The man is running a small business. He hires hardcore ex-cons. He’s got pissy old women customers giving him shit. Excuse the man if he can’t devote the bulk of his work day to politely teaching septuagenarian murderers and rapists the proper way to bag groceries. The man should be one of the heroes of the movie, not the cranky, impatient tool he’s made out to be.

Instead, Red the slick bastard killer is one of the heroes. During his final parole hearing, he refers to his youthful “mistake” as if it were nothing more than spray painting graffiti on an abandoned building. By the time he’s done whining, we are hoping beyond hope that good ol’ Red gets his parole. I bet if it had been your sister whose throat he slashed (after raping her), you’d not be so anxious to see “APPROVED” stamped on his form. You’d be rooting for the “No fucking way, dirtball!” stamp.

Finally, we have our hero, Andy Dufresne, the one we’re supposed to pull for with all our bleeding hearts. If you ask me, he’s the biggest asswipe of them all. Yet every time we watch, we wait expectantly for his big escape and the delicious come-uppance he inflicts on the evil warden. Yes, Andy was innocent, and that’s terribly unfortunate. But he’s not the wonderful guy we are led to believe. The douchebag was this close to killing his wife and her lover for … what, fucking? We are duped into thinking they deserve it. But if Andy can’t sling that dick and twirl that tongue good enough to sate his wife’s twitching twat, then more power to her for getting some strange dick. He deserved 3 – 5 years just for intent.

Andy is also portrayed as a deep-thinking intellect. He plays chess and shapes rocks. He creates a library. He is transported to a better place by Mozart. He philosophizes in the yard about hope and shit for the edification of his less intellectually-equipped prison mates. And what else does he do? He steals the fucking money that we vilify the warden for stealing. When it was the warden taking pilfered money, it was reprehensible. But when Andy takes that same money to buy a piece of shit boat, he somehow deserves it? Not only did he steal money, but he also stole the warden’s shoes and suit. Hell, he even heisted his Bible! And this is the guy we hope makes it safely through the tube of diarrhea? We should be rooting for six wrong turns.

Yes, this movie’s message is overrated. Real prisons are overflowing with human filth who have committed the most depraved crimes imaginable. (Exception: All the black men we’ve incarcerated for minor drug crimes.) Shawshank is akin to a summer boys camp, with sports, movies and three hot squares a day. (Sure, there’s also the occasional forced BJ and anal rape, but into each life a little rain, right?)

In one of the movie’s big dramatic scenes, Andy tells Red that “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever really dies.” Right, Andy. What does die are friends and relatives and little children at the hands of the subhuman filth who make up a large part of prison populations like Shawshank. Hey Andy, you know what else is a “good thing”? America’s goddamn penal system. Lights out, scumbags. Eat shit. Rot in your cell. Stick a … oh shit … look! Shawshank is on. I gotta go. I love this movie!

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

Courtney Enlow

Am I up to this challenge? Every time.

For the past two and a half years or so, I have been going through something. I don’t want to call it a change, more of a progression. I’ve aged two and a half years. And while I have in my life aged two and a half years probably nine-ish times (math is hard) for some reason, the aging of this particular two and a half years has been especially daunting. I find myself more and more shocked as time goes by that anyone survives past 25. I’m having a hell of a time even making it there.

I don’t want to feel sorry for myself and have a whole woe-is-me-I’m growing-up-against-my-will pity party. That’s not what this is. This is legit.

It started toward the end of my first semester, senior year of college. And I really want to tell the story of how it started, but my parents and a couple of my aunts read this column and I really want them to still love me when all is said and done, so I will need to put this delicately. Hmm …

Yeah there’s no way to do that. So if you’re related to me, maybe you just look away now, ‘kay?

So my senior year of college, a friend (who shall remain nameless and completely without description) and I decided to try ‘shrooms. Now mind you, I am NOT a drug user. I’ve smoked weed before but it didn’t work for me (I don’t think I did it right) and I’ve never even considered trying anything else (I’m very certain that if I ever did try coke, I’d just sneeze it back out). So this was uncharacteristic to say the least. But I got curious. So we put them in some pineapple mango salsa and just kind of went to town.

Now I was under the impression from friends who’d done it before, or knew people who had done it before, that maybe I’d just see some weird visuals or feel all sixties-like (that made sense in my mind as an adjective at the time). A friend once told me about how he “was totally tripping balls” and a witch chased him around his basement all night on a broom. I figured that was my worst case scenario.

I. Was. Wrong. So very wrong.

At first my depth perception went kind of wonky. The floor seemed really far away. This made me laugh. When I realized I was the only one laughing, it made me really sad. Then, and this is almost as impossible to explain now as it was at the time, I stopped understanding how time worked. I didn’t understand why I could see the past but not the future. I tried to explain this to my friend, who did not understand, and this too made me sad. And that’s when things got bad.

While trying to see the future, I just kept seeing the past. I kept seeing all these little mental movies of my childhood. My grandparents coming over to our old house on Stokebridge for Christmas morning. My mom and I laying out on the deck, our skin smelling like coconut lotion. The day my dad first shaved his mustache and I was scared of him. The crabs on the beach in Hawaii. My brother and I in the pool, him wearing his little yellow floaties. My cousin Sarah and I playing spies during family parties, hiding behind clothes to listen in on conversations. My grandma making me tomato soup and chocolate milkshakes when I’d stay home from school sick. Listening to Kasey’s Top 40 in the car on sunny Sundays with my mom. My dad and I going to pick up Vic’s Pizza and then renting movies every Friday night. And I started crying. And then a voice at the back of my head started saying “this is over. This is over. This is all over. It’s all gone. It’s all gone. These are dead.”

Yeah, no, I know, it’s fucked up.

At this point, I’m three hours into this trip with three to four hours to go, and I am sobbing hysterically while rocking back and forth on my bed screaming in agony because the memories won’t stop. My brain was bombarding me and I couldn’t do anything about it. (My friend, it should be noted, was hanging out in my living room staring at my London Ballet Nutcracker poster because “they were all totally dancing to the music that’s not even there … wow,” and was completely oblivious to my breakdown just rooms away.)

Finally, hours later, it ended. But I’ve really never been the same. It changed me. I didn’t get the cool “Dude, you can totally hear colors” shit hippies talk about. I got the sudden and horrible onslaught of the most disturbing thing that could ever happen: growing up.

Two and a half years later, and I still can’t think about my memories happily. Even typing the paragraph up there had my eyes itching with tears, my throat closing while a sob tried to make its way up. Because it is all over. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult now. An adult who in a matter of years will be getting married and having kids of my own. And though it’s only a few years away, right now I know I’m too young to even handle thinking about it. I’m not ready to be ready for this.

That’s not to say I won’t be. I know that I will. In a matter of years I will be ready to get married and have kids and look at my memories with joy and a gentle wistfulness, rather than the Our Town-esque “I want to go back” sadness I have now. And as time goes by, I’m getting there. I have a nice corporate sell-out job which allows me to pay my rent and buy cute clothes and eat Thai food. That’s good. That’s a step forward. You know what I don’t spend my money on? Pineapple mango salsa. Fuck that. I’m never eating that again.

What I’m saying here kids is don’t do drugs. They turn you off of your favorite condiments and turn you insanely Garden State Braffian. And no one needs that.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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Jeremiah was raised in the deepest part of the darkest jungle. That’s why he smells like adventure. He currently lives in Elkins, WV with his wife, Becky, and son, Isaiah, who is epic and destined to rule the world one day. You can contact him at jeremiahwentz@hobotrashcan.com.