| Dear George, |
This is going to be difficult. I'm sorry for that. I never wanted to hurt you.
First and foremost, I want to thank you for all the wonderful things you've given me over the years: Star Wars, Indiana Jones and -- err, that's kinda it. But whatever; Star Wars was really, really great. One could argue it helped teach me morality, and made me believe in something bigger than myself. I guess Star Wars even helped me learn about spirituality, as I did not come from a churchgoing family. And Indiana Jones was such fun; it made archeological science and human history exciting. The archeologists and anthropologists of the world thank you for that.
But, though we've shared this incredible bond, and many good years, I just can't do this anymore. I'm living a lie. It's a less than ideal situation, and I don't want to settle for something that my heart just isn't in. I feel that, with you still in my life, I am missing out on my chance at true happiness. I've searched my soul for years about this, and I've given it every bit of my dedication to see it through to the end, whatever that may have been. I know in my heart of hearts that I've reached that point, and I just can no longer be with you.
We have to break up.
Yes, yes I know this may come as a shock to you. But there are reasons, George, so many reasons. I'm not trying to slander you or make you angry, but I've thought about this for some time, and you deserve to know some of those reasons.
One: your last three Star Wars movies
You know the ones I'm talking about. Those three movies you dared called episodes of Star Wars, though they were strangely soul-less, and felt generally empty like the CliffsNotes of what should have been the first half of an epic tale, but instead was a giant advertisement for toys and/or a masturbatory session with computer graphics frustratingly punctuated by occasional glimpses of what wonderful movies you could have made -- were you less concerned about making the films family-friendly. I mean, it doesn't matter how good an actor Ewan McGregor is if he's forced to deliver lines like, "You don't want to sell me death sticks." And would it have killed you to tell your daughter not to look directly at the camera? Nepotism in cinema ruined the third Godfather movie. What made you think this was a good idea in a movie about people with laser swords?
Remember back, twenty-five years or so before Attack of the Clones when Harrison Ford told you during the production of A New Hope that you could type lines like, "Driving through hyperspace ain't like dusting crops boy, one wrong miscalculation and we could crash into a star or a meteorite and that would end this trip real quick," but you couldn't say them. Back then, you forced actors to deliver such dialogue in all seriousness, not to treat everything as a tongue-in-cheek homage to the past surrounded by colorful, cartoony aliens. You wrote with an obvious belief in the material, which made us believe too.
Two: that last Indiana Jones movie
Seriously, HE SURVIVES A NUCLEAR EXPLOSION BY HIDING IN A FRIDGE.
I'm going to let that sink in a minute.
Plus, if that wasn't insulting enough, he just doesn't hide in the fridge, he's blown approximately three miles through the air at about the speed of sound across the desert in said appliance, which then tumbles over four hundred yards before stopping. Yet, the door of the fridge stays latched, and our hero, once the fridge stops moving, then pushes it open, dusts himself off, and gets back to business.
Then there's the waterfall scene, which makes me too mad to even discuss. I'm going to throw you a little bone here for the future: we only believe the supernatural stuff in a movie if it's done by the supernatural items or people, not the hapless idiots in the amphibious vehicle. People don't stay in convertibles after falling straight down three-hundred feet into the rocky whitewater below. And they certainly don't do it three times in a row. I don't know what Holy Grails or Arcs of the Covenant do, so that's all you, but I do know what gravity generally does, particularly in the absence of seatbelts.
And, finally, what the fuck was with all the zombie Aztecs you made a point of building up for a most of the film, only to ultimately see them wind up spending the bulk of their ten-second screen time dead, on the ground, having been (I guess?) machine-gunned to death by that Russian chick from Rocky and Bullwinkle -- off screen?
Honestly, I could go on and on, but I'm just going to tell you that this movie pretty much blew. I understand it wasn't all your fault, that you didn't write the script and that your Zoetrope buddy Spielberg directed it - and apparently was completely obliterated drunk during the entire production process - but you did nothing to stop it, like a German citizen in 1939 sitting idly by thinking, This kinda sucks what's going on with the nationalistic, imperialist violence and all, but screw it; I hate politics. Only, in this case, you were standing directly next to Hitler with a loaded gun called a "copyright."
Three: you've grown very, very pudgy, and I'm no longer attracted to you
You can't afford a treadmill?
Four: this was how it happened, and we all know it
George, people grow, and people change. Sometimes when that growth occurs, people grow apart. And when that change occurs, people change in ways that make them no longer good for one another, though they still may both be good people.
It's just that you've grown into an eight-year-old, and changed into a lunatic.
I think it's best that you just don't call me anymore.
Sorry about the mess,
-Dan |
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