For a man so highly regarded, it seems clear that Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr., more commonly known to us as “Indiana” Jones, deserves little more than the contempt of the average man. Throughout the episodic adventures of his self-titled 4-part trilogy, we glean a many-faceted glimpse of Dr. Jones, as the Adademic, the Dashing Traveller, the Ruthless Greedy Hoarder, and all in all not one that in the grander scheme reveals him as any more than a petty criminal with a nearly unremovable hat. One only need examine his much-beloved ‘heroic’ antics to see him in his true light.
First, let us consider his rampant destruction of an incredibly preserved Peruvian temple. Who could have imagined that the Incans could have created a pneumatic dart security system that could survive nearly a millenium of disuse in such a humid and corrosive climate? And the technology to carve and raise an enormous granite sphere, if not then to burrow such an enormous mountain channel for it to pass through, these skills are thought to have been quite beyond the capacity of the local tribes as we understand them today. These revelations alone could have occupied a team of research scientists for several years. But instead of conducting due dilligence, or even wearing gloves for christ’s sake, Dr. Jones instead summarily destroys this amazing temple, with the end result of donating more wealth to the Third Reich’s dark coffers.
In general, Dr. “Indiana” Jones has little concern for anyone except himself. On many occasions, Dr. Jones has had the pleasure of being assisted by the much honorable Dr. Marcus Brody, whose creativity in his curatorship of the Triesten Remains was matched only by his skill on the Polka dance floor. Upon their myriad excursions in the Sudan, or when poring through the cavernous libraries of Paris, or even on those many occasions where Dr. Brody’s live was so periolusly threatened by the thoughtless acts of others, did the magnanmious Dr. Jones ever once show him any more than the barest hint of gratitude? No, of course not. And can any of us truly remember the number of times in when Sailah was forced once again to rescue Dr. Jones in some grand Deus-ex-Machinian fashion, the recklessly adventuous result of which seems to have only made Indiana’s fortunes rise like so much sweet cream? No, of course not. Nor should we overlook the Oedipally-infused encounters with his brilliant father, the Biblical scholar Professor Henry Walton Jones Sr., in which our ‘sympathetic’ protagonist bares out his psychological complexes with such a flamingly literal replaying of the Resurrection myth.
And then there is his relationship with women. It is best to refer to the female Anima in her archetypical form here, for Dr. Jones seems to have issue with that entire spectrum. Poor Marion Ravenwood, who was left sweeping their floor in Kenya, pregnant and alone, after Dr. Jones crept out late one night to “scare away some dumb old ivory theives” only to end up lashed to a cargo hull speeding away from the Gold Coast. And how could such a gorgeous and multi-talented cabaret entertainer such as Wilie Scott get so caught up in his clutches, only to be dragged through the most diseased slums of colonial India, forced to eat the brains of a monkey (a rather disgusting ethnic delicacy), and then to nearly be sacrificed in a bloodthirsty sacrifice to the goddess Kali? Oh, the shame! And even moreso, both the esteemed Dr. Elsa Schneider and the highly-decorated Agent Irina Spalko themselves had such bright careers ahead of them, until they too fell befoul of Indiana’s crazy, wacky, mad-cap adventures of comedic archeological rape.
But to be sure, the most damning evidence must be his complete and utter disregard for supernatural forces. To recount the sheer number of times in which Dr. Jones has been exposed to fantastical relics, the pursuit of which which has soon bloomed forth with entities of such ridiculously supreme power, is it not true that even one experience of this nature alone could inspire a generation or more? But not only has Dr. Jones been remiss in showing the professionalism, nor indeed even the basic good faith, to document or publish such experiences in even the most coarse of details, the smallest morsel of which would so enlighten both his peers and the scientific community as a whole. But also he has shown a consistent level of arrogance and wanton disrespect towards these true-to-life walking-talking deific manifestations. Not one, but two relics of the Christian faith have been utterly desecrated by his impudence, also resulting in significant amounts of collateral damage to the surrounding area and high-ranking Nazis officers. But to spit in the face — or more accurately, in the skull — of our first contact with another galactic civilization? Dr. Jones might seem to be more of a existential threat than just a capricious historian who has clearly lost his battle with his adrenal addiction.
In summary, our idolatry of this man is not only misplaced, is is completely unjustified. Oh, how suave Indiana is, what with his perpetual three-day stubble. And that long slender whip of his, which commands such shock and awe from the fairer sex. All these things are but a mask, a crude mask that only hides his lunatic gaze, that of a hackneyed filcher of priceless artifacts. Pray that the world has heard the very last of Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr., a more damnable bastard we may never see.