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Harrison Ford is Indiana Jones.
I was ten years old when I went to see Raiders of the Lost Ark with my father. I can recall that experience with precise details, down to my red pants with white fluting down the side. It was a turning point in my life. As I left the theater, I made up my mind that I was going to become an archaeologist. As part of my training, I spent the next few years jumping off of high platforms, pretending to escape from Hovitos and their poison darts, and turning every hat into a brown fedora, every rope into a whip.
When Indidana Jones and the Temple of Doom was released with its PG-13 rating, I went to see it 13 times. My motto switched from “This belongs in a museum” to “Fortune and Glory”. I coveted the role of Short Round and wished I could be running beside Indy, jumping off of cliffs, and yelling, “Hey lady, you call him Dr. Jones” to Kate Capshaw’s Willie Scott.
Four years later, I was well-known as everyone’s Indy. I was Adiniana Jones, and though not the most feminine of parts, I relished it. I escaped from my Senior Trip in high school to catch the opening night of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with a few friends. Hopping the fence and plotting our escape made me feel a part of the movie. I was living the part.
Indiana Jones has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. People were always trying to say that it was Harrison Ford who I loved, but in truth, it wasn’t. I loved Indy. His character represented everything I wanted in life – adventure, excitement, magic. Indy was all that and more.
When I went to college, I majored in History, though quickly changed that tune when I realized that archeology had more to do with books than swashbuckling. But I still searched for adventure. The Indy theme song was playing in my head when I went bungee jumping, it echoed off the caves I explored at 3 in the morning when I studied abroad, it followed me on cliffs and mountains that I climbed, each time pretending to be the man who created my persona.
I bought all the Indiana Jones tie-in toys, I bought the screenplays, I owned the hat, the jacket, the whip, and the shoulder bag. When I got married, my husband, much to the deep consternation of my mother-in-law, bought me an Indiana Jones watch he picked up at Disney’s MGM Studios Theme Park.
So when Indy 4 was coming out, I was ready. I had a bumper sticker on my car, a pin on my lapel. I dusted off the fedora and joined all the facebook groups on the internet. It was a movie I had waited for since 1981 and nothing could deter me.
I went to the first showing.
And I came back confused.
It took a few days for me to process some of the feelings I had after watching my hero on film. In truth, saving up so many years and splurging it on one story line certainly set the standard bar high. I was expecting another Indy. I got an Indy, but one with a twist.
My vision of Indy had remained stuck back in 1989 with The Last Crusade. That final scene riding off into the sunset was where I had hoped Kingdom of the Crystal Skull would take off from. I had heard that Harrison was old, that technology was advanced, and that Karen Allen might have aged a bit. Logically, I tried to prepare, but I couldn’t surmount the excitement of hearing the song, watching the fedora, throwing myself into another adventure. All that dwarfed the reality of an older, different Indy.
More importantly, I didn’t deal with, or rather, count on, my own aging.
It had been a while since I experienced an Indy movie. A high school senior is a different person than a 30-plus year old mother of five. Though I wanted to believe I was the same girl gallivanting over cliffs and fences, I was not. And as such, my experience was different.
It took me time to go over why I left the theater so pensive. Perhaps my childhood heroes needed to stay in my past. Indiana Jones is a character that copies superheroes and action comic book stars. But those guys stay the same age on the printed page. Even James Bond is reborn every few years with a newer model who can keep up the job of perpetual hero. Maybe Indy should have done the same.
By the morning, I agreed with my husband that the film was good. It was fun. I caught the inside jokes and references to past films. I loved the action and the over-the-top chase scenes. I loved the gratuitous bugs. I missed little things that were in the first three films that were lacking in this fourth go-round. But most of all, I realized that I missed myself. My younger self, that is, experiencing that awe and wonder that Indiana Jones created. I missed the ease of believing in a larger than life character and arguing that yes, one can stop a tank missile with a rock.
Watching Indy 4 was more a confirmation of my own aging than another episode in the series. The bittersweet aftertaste I had when leaving the theater was the understanding that we had all aged – the character, the story, the desire for adventure and excitement.
I will still climb up cliffs, and explore caves, but like Indy getting married, I will also relish my choice for settling down as well. My children. My husband. My home.
The peace I made with the movie at the end was that yes, I was Indy, and now, I still am. We both aged. We both grew up. We both married our true loves. And though the hat is about to be passed to the next generation in that symbolic final moment of the film, we are not about to give it up just yet.
And in that case, I am still ready and able. Just older and wiser.
Cue the music.
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