I was killing time at a shop in the mall yesterday — one of those places that sells framed art like those back and whites James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, reprinted close-ups of man’s finger reaching for God’s, and that photo of the sailor laying a kiss on his girl — when I overheard a girl in the aisle behind me say, “Oh look, Indiana Jones!”
The response, from whom I can only assume was the boyfriend: “I hate Indiana Jones. Like, how many Nazis did he kill?”
There’s a few places you could go with that one, and not all of them would be nice places to visit. Of course, you never think of the really cool rejoinders until later (email me if you want to know what I should have said). I rounded the corner to get a look at the guy, and he might have been eighteen or so. So he probably doesn’t know any better.
My wife, the more level-headed one, suggested he might have felt the film went a little overboard by always returning to the Nazis whenever Indy needed a villain. Maybe. Still, a statement like that…
