Mista Jone, He Daid.

In this version of the Indy Jones Chronicles the monkey people retreat
to the back of the Monkey House and pelt the audience with feces, after
which they sat back and watch the producer, director, writer, in fact
all the above the line leaches, masturbate to distract the audience
from the realization that watching this movie is like swimming across a
river of snot.

In this installment Indy has a son named Mutt. A truly talented writer
would have given the poor lonely child a brother named Jeff. Maybe the
two of them together could have come close to a convincing performance.
"You're not my Dad! He was a RAF pilot who's kite was shot down by a
ME 109 flown by the Red Baron!" You see, Matt never finished school,
he's a motorcycle mechanic, like those guys on SONS OF ANARCHY.

Cate Blanchett is a sword welding transvestite Soviet Army Officer in a
quest to learn mind control from, you guessed it, the Red, I mean, the
crystal skull, which turns out not to be crystal, but ETs lost head
("Elliott, do you believe in Tinker Bell?)

John Hurt seemed to think he was doing the last act of KING LEAR ("my
poor fool," in this case Spielberg," is dead. Or in one of the radio
versions of HEART OF DARKNESS, "Mister Kurtz, he daid".)

There's the obligatory fat guy who turns out to be the turncoat. Yeah,
fat guys have no loyalty except to pizza and ice cream. The only
dramatic purpose he served to is play the fool to Hurt's Lear (sans
storm).

This abomination was part X FILES and a lot of the NATIONAL TREASURE
pictures. NATURAL TREASURE was much better.

Oh, in this turkey, ET didn't phone it in, Harrison Ford did. He's
going to end up doing dinner theater in Florida.