Menu
Nancy Reagan
and the
Ark of the Covenant
7.
As Indiana Jones returned to his collegiate life–which is apparently full of beautiful, college-aged girls so blinded from writing “I love you” on their eyelids that they can’t see he’s just some middle aged nerd with a closet full of shovels–Margaret revealed that she had an ulterior motive for inviting me to this screening.
You see, Roy Cohn had called her, which, honestly, is very rude of him. He’d been calling me all day, too. Even though he knew that I was on vacation! Anyone who knows Roy Cohn knows that talking to him…it’s work. And if I don’t deserve a day’s vacation from that closeted, spray-tanned jerk–after everything I’ve done for him–then I don’t know what I deserve. But no. Roy, ever the bitch, called Margaret.
Apparently, there was some “package” that they’d both “appreciate” if I could “scoop up” while I was in town. I told them that I had plenty of staff who could “scoop up” whatever they wanted, but that wasn’t good enough. They wanted me to do it. I knew that meant they needed it to be kept secret. Because I’m not particularly good at picking up packages, but I am fucking incredible at keeping secrets.
I explained to Margaret that I couldn’t possibly do anything like this because I am too busy being on vacation; and don’t I, in fact, deserve a vacation after everything I’ve done for both of them? But Margaret kept going on and on about how this was for the greater good.
Margaret always goes on about the greater good when she knows she doesn’t have a fucking leg to stand on.
I asked Margaret what this was all about and she just responded, “It’s nothing. It’s easy. Don’t even worry.” I did not find this reassuring. The more I pushed for answers, the vaguer Margaret got. I told her that if she wouldn’t tell me what this was all about, I was leaving.
This is where we have to get into some ancient history.
8.
The first thing you need to know about Charlie Chaplin is that he was never an American. He spent about forty years of his life in America–the most productive years in his career, need I remind you–but he always held onto his British passport. He told people that he was a citizen of the world, which in my experience is usually an expression reserved for college boys trying to impress you with Spanish wine. Still, even though he wasn’t an American, he was more than happy to run around the country telling folks that we needed to get involved in World War II.
Chaplin was part of a group that would later be labeled the “prematurely antifascists.” These were people who opposed the Nazi party back in the 1930s, when many of America's biggest businessmen still saw quite a bit of money to be made in Germany. You see, your average red blooded American really wasn’t bothered by the Nazis until America declared war. Then, they had a grand, patriotic reason to be antifascist. But the prematurely antifascists hated Hitler before we had even declared war, meaning that they weren’t against the Nazi’s for patriotic reasons. They were just upset about what Hitler said and did and believed in. That meant they were probably communists. It is why so many of the premature antifascists were called to testify before Senator Joe McCarthy and the House of Un-American Activities Committee.
The second thing you need to know about Charlie Chaplin is that he is a pervert. He was married four times. Always to very…young women. Had a lot of extra-curricular sex, too. Which created an opening for some patriotic Americans who wanted to see this citizen of the world lay his anchor in a new port.
You see, Chaplin had been sleeping with a woman named Joan Barry. When he tried to end things, she agreed to take some money in exchange for leaving him alone. Classic Hollywood love story. Then, one night, she showed up to Chaplin’s home with a pistol and held him at gunpoint for ninety minutes. Somehow, after this, they had sex and then slept in different bedrooms.
As I said…pervert!
Then, she asked for some more money to get a train ticket to move to New York. Charlie’s loaded. What does he care? He gives it to her. Then, the next time he’s in New York, guess who else is there? Joan Barry. And she’s asking for more money. He gives it to her and she uses it to get a train ticket right back to L.A.
And on top of all that, at some point during this extended period of interstate travel, Joan gets pregnant.
Depending on how you look at it, you could…theoretically…consider this sex trafficking across state lines; which is a federal crime. So now the FBI’s involved, including the thorn in the side of antifascists everywhere, J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover had been looking for any excuse to kick Chuck Chaplin out of the country for years, so he seized upon the opportunity.
For the trial, the FBI was able to line up a judge who was friends with Joan Barry, but even he had to admit that this messy breakup didn’t exactly qualify as sex trafficking. He did, however, determine that the blood test that had proved Chaplin was not the father to Barry’s baby was inadmissible in court. Since that meant Chaplin couldn’t prove that he wasn’t the child’s father, he was ordered to pay child support until Joan’s kid was twenty-one. It was a pretty big middle finger to Chaplin, but it still left that pinko on the street.
The third and final thing you need to know about Chaplin is that he was no fool. He knew that the trial had been a farce. Even before the trial, he’d heard from powerful friends that people in the government were after him. He realized that he needed a weapon to fight back. It is no small irony that his weapon of choice was also the preferred weapon of his new enemy, J. Edgar Hoover: Blackmail.
I’ve heard dozens of different theories about what evidence Chaplin might have purchased to try and protect himself. Some people claim it was proof that Dwight D. Eisenhower was a Soviet agent. Others say it was evidence that Hoover and McCarthy were queers, which they were and were not always great about hiding. For the most part, though, I think people agree that it was probably evidence showing that the studios were paying off the federal government to keep their biggest stars off the blacklist and keep the House of Un-American Activities Committee focused on folks who didn’t matter. You know, like writers.
So, for a little while, Charlie Chaplin and Uncle Sam were at an impasse. That is, until Chaplin left the country. According to Margaret, the FBI snuck into his place and, as soon as they recovered his kompromat, the United States government revoked his return visa. It serves him right, given what he did. His tiny little wife had to come back alone to pack up all their stuff. I only wish they would have set up bleachers across the street and sold tickets.
This is where the story should have ended. Because any reasonable person in this situation would destroy the evidence and pretend like it never happened. But we aren’t dealing with reasonable people. We’re dealing with the pencil dicked dorks at the FBI. These are G-Men. Government Men. You know, snoops! When you hear “G-Men,” you probably picture guys in suits fighting mobsters on the streets of Chicago. That’s no accident. They’ve tried their best to advertise themselves as brave, all-American boys fighting evil. Just remember, they didn’t arrest Al Capone for fighting. They got him for tax evasion. These are guys who genuinely want to look through your taxes. And your trash. And your medicine cabinet. They want it all. So, naturally, they decided to hold on to the damning evidence.
As you’ve probably already guessed, they lost it. The FBI says they don’t know when it happened, but I assume that if they're telling me that, it means the exact opposite. These are slippery bastards, and they don’t always see us as being on the same team. I mean, we’re both Republicans, obviously. It’s a very conservative agency. Every FBI director has been a Republican–except for Hoover who pretended to be an Independent in public and was too right-wing to count as a Republican in private–but these FBI guys are, first and foremost, bureaucrats. It doesn’t matter who’s in office. They are still there doing what they do. To be honest with you, I think they’ve gotten a little drunk on the job security. They act like they’re above it all, like Ronnie’s not their boss. It’s the sort of D.C. fuckery that really glazes my donuts.
For who knows how long, Chaplin’s evidence had been missing and everybody just pretended like it wasn’t. It was easy. On paper, it didn’t exist. Now, thirty years later, some chump was running around Southern California looking for the documents. The chump was a history professor from UCLA specializing in Golden Age Hollywood who was writing a biography about Chaplin. I don’t know why you’d want to write a biography about some British pinko who didn’t even talk, but I guess that sort of useless liberal drivel is more or less what our universities are there for. Margaret seemed uncertain about whether this book was going to go into much detail about Charlie’s relationship with the FBI, but the fact that he knew these files existed was enough to make everyone a little nervous.
Roy Cohn was beyond nervous. He was determined to find it first.
Margaret didn’t have to explain why. I already knew. Roy was Joseph McCarthy’s right hand man during the Blacklist. Whatever evidence Chaplin had was more likely to make him look bad than anybody still in office. I mean, Ronnie might not love the idea of public evidence proving he was informing on guild rivals to the FBI at the same time that he was publicly claiming that there was no Blacklist, but fighting Commies is pretty much his brand now. It would be a scandal. It would be embarrassing. But we have almost four years until the next election. That’s a lot of time for people to forget. Or at least to just stop caring. Roy, however, relies on the kindness of strangers. He isn’t President. I think he’s technically an advisor, but it’s hard to even call what he does a job. He needs men like Ronnie and Nixon to want him by their side. But men like Ronnie don’t make a habit of sticking their necks out for friends like Roy if they can’t handle their own scandals. You don’t get very far in politics if you’re wasting your time trying to help other people. John Gotti and that Trump kid Roy’s mentoring might not care what he got up to in the 1950s, but enough of his clients would to cause him some real pocketbook problems. Which explains why he and Margaret were trying to make it my problem, too.
9.
I eventually agreed to help. It was only a matter of time. If Ronnie’s in trouble, I’m going to do what I can. Plus, I never have figured out how to say no to Margaret. Part of me thinks that if I ever really do, she’ll kick my ass silly. With her devious task completed, Margaret finally let us sit back and enjoy the movie.
The same day that Indiana Jones makes it back to his day job as an archeology professor, two men from the United States government arrive. They’ve intercepted a German message saying that Indiana’s former mentor might be selling a dangerous artifact to the Nazis. The item is a bronze amulet that doubles as the headpiece for the Staff of Ra. If you put this headpiece on a stick that is the exact right height in the exact right spot at the exact right time, it could reveal the location of the Ark of the Covenant. I know that may sound a little overcomplicated, but you have to remember that this movie is almost two hours long. That’s a lot of time to fill. There aren’t even any dance numbers. So the movie has to find a bunch of little ways to stretch out the five days it takes Indiana Jones to uncover the archeological treasure that has been buried for three thousand years.
To be clear, I’m not complaining. If it weren’t for all the faff around the Staff of Ra, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet the monkey spy in the movie. He’s an adorable little guy, even if he is a monkey Nazi. It makes me think that all movies should have monkey spies in them. Can you imagine if halfway through Grease, Danny Zuko sent a little monkey in a leather jacket to see what the Pink Ladies were up to? Monkey movie magic!
Now for those of you who skipped Sunday School, the Ark of the Covenant is where the Ancient Israelites kept the Ten Commandments. They considered it God’s home on Earth and would carry it into battle, where the power of God would strike their enemies down with fire and lightning. No army could stand in its path, which made it a matter of national importance to find this ancient religious weapon before the Nazis could. Apparently God uses Capture the Flag rules. Whoever gets the ark home gets to keep the Wrath of God. And Jones is just the man to try and capture this flag.
While Dr. Jones is packing, his boss comes over to see him off and remind him to be careful. He warns that people have been looking for the lost Ark for three thousand years, and that Indiana shouldn’t take that lightly. Dr. Jones tells his boss not to worry. Jones insists that he’s a cautious guy. Then he throws his gun into his suitcase from halfway across the room like he’s playing Ozark Boom Hockey.
Neither of them even mentions the fact that Jones is going to miss school. I had a friend who was a teacher and, if she got hit by a bus on the same day that she won the lottery, she still had to send in lesson plans on To Kill A Mockingbird for her substitute. But Dr. Jones, it’s like he doesn’t care about school at all. He’s already hopping on the next plane to Nepal.
10.
In Nepal, we see a tired looking brunette drinking for a crowd of Star Wars extras. If you are worried you might get lost because you don’t know that much about Nepal, do not worry. The movie does not know anything about Nepal either. It’s nice. They avoid any ethnic identifiers and just make everyone look like a sweaty weirdo.
The tired brunette isn’t just any sloppy bar crawler. Her name is Marion Ravenwood and she is the best thing to ever happen to this movie.
Marion is the owner of the bar, Indiana’s ex, and the daughter of his mentor. I’m tempted to say something like, “That must have been awkward for the old professor,” but in truth, this sort of thing happens all the time. For as much as men like to pretend that they are obsessed with sex, they aren’t always willing to put the time and energy into casting that wide of a net. I have a friend who is a book collector. At least once a month, she’ll fly to some rare book shop or big book fair and come home with a suitcase full of finds. Before she goes, she spends hours making lists of books and doing the math on what she can and can’t afford. That is an obsession. Half the men I know just open their office doors, pick a secretary to harass, and call it a day. Sometimes I wonder if they even like sex at all.
This seems like a good time to say a few words about this movie’s attitude towards women. During my heyday in Hollywood, it was common for movies to have two romantic interests. One would be the angel on a boy’s shoulder. She would believe in him and the future they could build together. She would encourage him to follow his heart and stick by him no matter what. That’s who I used to play. We should all be so lucky as to have someone like that in our lives, right? And the other woman was usually some awful, brunette slut. It was that yin and yang, thesis and antithesis, push and pull that made those pictures work. The slut gave the boy new experiences and helped him find a love for life. Then, after she inevitably gets trampled by horses or runs off to have a baby with a jug band, the boy can return to his sweet angel for comfort.
The point is that you need both of these characters. In Indiana Jones, though, Marion is the only woman there. Which means that she has to be the angel and the slut. All the while, Indiana Jones can barely be an archeologist and a professor at the same time. He teaches for four minutes and then jumps out the window like a cartoon dog.
Action movies are already dangerous places for women, but now she has to get kidnapped enough for two. Even though she’s a spunky lady who’s successfully running a rough and tumble bar in the Himalayan mountains, she spends most of this movie getting punched or tied to poles.
It’s a hard role. And honestly, I think she’s great in it. Charming. Gorgeous. Believable. It almost makes me want to dust off the old acting shoes and give it a go. I’m so associated with playing angelic visions of wholesome feminine grace that people sometimes forget I’m also a pretty ballsy broad. If I played Marion, I bet I could be both. Throw a few punches before I let the broad chested professor sweep me off my feet. Although, of course, if I was in it, I would demand some changes to the script. Sometimes it is like the people who made this movie don’t understand Marion at all.
I’ll tell you this for free, the boys who made this movie are scared of women. I’ve seen it a million times in Hollywood. Some fresh faced nerd whose only friend is a typewriter shows up in California with stars in his eyes, but he doesn’t actually know how people work at all. All he knows are movies. As an actor–and as a collaborator, really–you want to help. You try to talk to them, teach them a little about the world. Who knows, maybe they’ll surprise you. Sweep you off your feet. Write you a role. But no. These boys never rise to the occasion. They’re too scared. They can’t look you in the eye. They can’t sit still. It would be easier to jack off a zucchini!
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not a feminist. I don’t hate men. I just hate boys. I think that anyone who is thirty or older and is still a boy should be rounded up and sent someplace awful like Siberia. If the Russians can do it, why can’t we?
11.
When Indiana Jones arrives at the bar, Marion seems almost happy to see him. As soon as he asks about the bronze amulet, though, she punches him in the face. What can I say? She’s spunky.
He offers her $3,000 for the piece, but she’s not in a negotiating mood. Then he tells her that it’s a worthless hunk of junk, which is a pretty stupid lie. If her dad dragged her halfway around the world searching for the Ark of the Covenant, don’t you think she knows about the Staff of Rah? I assume that the real answer is that he thinks that he can say whatever he wants to her and she’ll just lap it up like fresh milk. And for that, I hope she kills him.
Instead, she tells him to come back tomorrow.
After he leaves, she reveals that she’s been hiding the amulet under her shirt this whole time. As someone with a lot of very valuable jewelry, I can tell you that this is a rookie mistake. God made hotel safes for a reason. She sets the priceless artifact down on a random table in the empty bar and starts closing up when there is a knock at the door.
It is a gay little Nazi and three armed thugs.
The Nazis are even less charming than Indiana Jones. Their plan seems to be to torture Marion until the headpiece pops out of her futz. Little do they know that the amulet is already sitting on top of one of the wooden tables in this sad, dusty bar. Like my Aunt used to say, if it were a snake, it would have bit their lazy little fingers right off. Then, right before the Nazis impale Marion with a burning hot iron, Indiana shows up to save the day with his silly little whip.
I mean, I know that whips are scary, broadly. If I was in a Bloomingdale's and some guy started swinging a whip around, that would be terrifying. You know what I find scarier than a whip, though? A gang of Nazis with guns.
Hollywood is a dream factory and perhaps no dream is more appealing to men than the idea that they could probably win any fight in the entire world if they were properly motivated. When you watch action movies, they are full of scenes in which one righteous man has to take on a dozen professional killers and he always comes out on top. But do you know what professional killers do for a living? They kill people. And practice makes perfect. Have you ever been to a potluck and one person is actually a professional chef? Hell, have you ever been playing tennis and one person used to play tennis in college?
If I could talk to the men reading this for a second: Howdy boys! You know I love you. I think you are all tall and strapping and handsome. So believe me when I say that if you are over twenty and you haven’t already won a fight, you never will in your whole fucking life. Do you realize that there are people out there fighting all the time? There are people all across this great country taking boxing classes, and they aren’t even the ones you really have to worry about. You’re in over your head!
And if you won one fight in high school and think you still have what it takes to kick butt on demand, you’re bad at sex. Sorry darling, but it’s just true. I had to learn the hard way. Seven out of seven guys is 100% and that math doesn’t lie. It’s mostly just men who lie; and mostly to themselves. It’s how they get so good at it. Practice.
In the movie, though, the anthropology professor and the bartender beat up the professional killers before either of them can get seriously injured.
I know I’m being a little critical of the film, but this scene has everything I look for in a movie: big spooky shadows, a spreading fire, someone hitting a man over the head with a bottle. Genuinely, hitting a stooge over the head with a bottle was one of the biggest things left on my Hollywood bucket list before I got pregnant. After I had a kid, of course, I couldn’t do it because those cursive dicked bastards at the studios wouldn’t put me in movies anymore.
Once the fight is over, Marion tells Indiana that until she gets her $5,000, she’s his new partner. If you are asking me, she’s low-balling him. Back when I was living in Hollywood, it used to cost five, six times that much to make a lady disappear.
As Indiana Jones returned to his collegiate life–which is apparently full of beautiful, college-aged girls so blinded from writing “I love you” on their eyelids that they can’t see he’s just some middle aged nerd with a closet full of shovels–Margaret revealed that she had an ulterior motive for inviting me to this screening.
You see, Roy Cohn had called her, which, honestly, is very rude of him. He’d been calling me all day, too. Even though he knew that I was on vacation! Anyone who knows Roy Cohn knows that talking to him…it’s work. And if I don’t deserve a day’s vacation from that closeted, spray-tanned jerk–after everything I’ve done for him–then I don’t know what I deserve. But no. Roy, ever the bitch, called Margaret.
Apparently, there was some “package” that they’d both “appreciate” if I could “scoop up” while I was in town. I told them that I had plenty of staff who could “scoop up” whatever they wanted, but that wasn’t good enough. They wanted me to do it. I knew that meant they needed it to be kept secret. Because I’m not particularly good at picking up packages, but I am fucking incredible at keeping secrets.
I explained to Margaret that I couldn’t possibly do anything like this because I am too busy being on vacation; and don’t I, in fact, deserve a vacation after everything I’ve done for both of them? But Margaret kept going on and on about how this was for the greater good.
Margaret always goes on about the greater good when she knows she doesn’t have a fucking leg to stand on.
I asked Margaret what this was all about and she just responded, “It’s nothing. It’s easy. Don’t even worry.” I did not find this reassuring. The more I pushed for answers, the vaguer Margaret got. I told her that if she wouldn’t tell me what this was all about, I was leaving.
This is where we have to get into some ancient history.
8.
The first thing you need to know about Charlie Chaplin is that he was never an American. He spent about forty years of his life in America–the most productive years in his career, need I remind you–but he always held onto his British passport. He told people that he was a citizen of the world, which in my experience is usually an expression reserved for college boys trying to impress you with Spanish wine. Still, even though he wasn’t an American, he was more than happy to run around the country telling folks that we needed to get involved in World War II.
Chaplin was part of a group that would later be labeled the “prematurely antifascists.” These were people who opposed the Nazi party back in the 1930s, when many of America's biggest businessmen still saw quite a bit of money to be made in Germany. You see, your average red blooded American really wasn’t bothered by the Nazis until America declared war. Then, they had a grand, patriotic reason to be antifascist. But the prematurely antifascists hated Hitler before we had even declared war, meaning that they weren’t against the Nazi’s for patriotic reasons. They were just upset about what Hitler said and did and believed in. That meant they were probably communists. It is why so many of the premature antifascists were called to testify before Senator Joe McCarthy and the House of Un-American Activities Committee.
The second thing you need to know about Charlie Chaplin is that he is a pervert. He was married four times. Always to very…young women. Had a lot of extra-curricular sex, too. Which created an opening for some patriotic Americans who wanted to see this citizen of the world lay his anchor in a new port.
You see, Chaplin had been sleeping with a woman named Joan Barry. When he tried to end things, she agreed to take some money in exchange for leaving him alone. Classic Hollywood love story. Then, one night, she showed up to Chaplin’s home with a pistol and held him at gunpoint for ninety minutes. Somehow, after this, they had sex and then slept in different bedrooms.
As I said…pervert!
Then, she asked for some more money to get a train ticket to move to New York. Charlie’s loaded. What does he care? He gives it to her. Then, the next time he’s in New York, guess who else is there? Joan Barry. And she’s asking for more money. He gives it to her and she uses it to get a train ticket right back to L.A.
And on top of all that, at some point during this extended period of interstate travel, Joan gets pregnant.
Depending on how you look at it, you could…theoretically…consider this sex trafficking across state lines; which is a federal crime. So now the FBI’s involved, including the thorn in the side of antifascists everywhere, J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover had been looking for any excuse to kick Chuck Chaplin out of the country for years, so he seized upon the opportunity.
For the trial, the FBI was able to line up a judge who was friends with Joan Barry, but even he had to admit that this messy breakup didn’t exactly qualify as sex trafficking. He did, however, determine that the blood test that had proved Chaplin was not the father to Barry’s baby was inadmissible in court. Since that meant Chaplin couldn’t prove that he wasn’t the child’s father, he was ordered to pay child support until Joan’s kid was twenty-one. It was a pretty big middle finger to Chaplin, but it still left that pinko on the street.
The third and final thing you need to know about Chaplin is that he was no fool. He knew that the trial had been a farce. Even before the trial, he’d heard from powerful friends that people in the government were after him. He realized that he needed a weapon to fight back. It is no small irony that his weapon of choice was also the preferred weapon of his new enemy, J. Edgar Hoover: Blackmail.
I’ve heard dozens of different theories about what evidence Chaplin might have purchased to try and protect himself. Some people claim it was proof that Dwight D. Eisenhower was a Soviet agent. Others say it was evidence that Hoover and McCarthy were queers, which they were and were not always great about hiding. For the most part, though, I think people agree that it was probably evidence showing that the studios were paying off the federal government to keep their biggest stars off the blacklist and keep the House of Un-American Activities Committee focused on folks who didn’t matter. You know, like writers.
So, for a little while, Charlie Chaplin and Uncle Sam were at an impasse. That is, until Chaplin left the country. According to Margaret, the FBI snuck into his place and, as soon as they recovered his kompromat, the United States government revoked his return visa. It serves him right, given what he did. His tiny little wife had to come back alone to pack up all their stuff. I only wish they would have set up bleachers across the street and sold tickets.
This is where the story should have ended. Because any reasonable person in this situation would destroy the evidence and pretend like it never happened. But we aren’t dealing with reasonable people. We’re dealing with the pencil dicked dorks at the FBI. These are G-Men. Government Men. You know, snoops! When you hear “G-Men,” you probably picture guys in suits fighting mobsters on the streets of Chicago. That’s no accident. They’ve tried their best to advertise themselves as brave, all-American boys fighting evil. Just remember, they didn’t arrest Al Capone for fighting. They got him for tax evasion. These are guys who genuinely want to look through your taxes. And your trash. And your medicine cabinet. They want it all. So, naturally, they decided to hold on to the damning evidence.
As you’ve probably already guessed, they lost it. The FBI says they don’t know when it happened, but I assume that if they're telling me that, it means the exact opposite. These are slippery bastards, and they don’t always see us as being on the same team. I mean, we’re both Republicans, obviously. It’s a very conservative agency. Every FBI director has been a Republican–except for Hoover who pretended to be an Independent in public and was too right-wing to count as a Republican in private–but these FBI guys are, first and foremost, bureaucrats. It doesn’t matter who’s in office. They are still there doing what they do. To be honest with you, I think they’ve gotten a little drunk on the job security. They act like they’re above it all, like Ronnie’s not their boss. It’s the sort of D.C. fuckery that really glazes my donuts.
For who knows how long, Chaplin’s evidence had been missing and everybody just pretended like it wasn’t. It was easy. On paper, it didn’t exist. Now, thirty years later, some chump was running around Southern California looking for the documents. The chump was a history professor from UCLA specializing in Golden Age Hollywood who was writing a biography about Chaplin. I don’t know why you’d want to write a biography about some British pinko who didn’t even talk, but I guess that sort of useless liberal drivel is more or less what our universities are there for. Margaret seemed uncertain about whether this book was going to go into much detail about Charlie’s relationship with the FBI, but the fact that he knew these files existed was enough to make everyone a little nervous.
Roy Cohn was beyond nervous. He was determined to find it first.
Margaret didn’t have to explain why. I already knew. Roy was Joseph McCarthy’s right hand man during the Blacklist. Whatever evidence Chaplin had was more likely to make him look bad than anybody still in office. I mean, Ronnie might not love the idea of public evidence proving he was informing on guild rivals to the FBI at the same time that he was publicly claiming that there was no Blacklist, but fighting Commies is pretty much his brand now. It would be a scandal. It would be embarrassing. But we have almost four years until the next election. That’s a lot of time for people to forget. Or at least to just stop caring. Roy, however, relies on the kindness of strangers. He isn’t President. I think he’s technically an advisor, but it’s hard to even call what he does a job. He needs men like Ronnie and Nixon to want him by their side. But men like Ronnie don’t make a habit of sticking their necks out for friends like Roy if they can’t handle their own scandals. You don’t get very far in politics if you’re wasting your time trying to help other people. John Gotti and that Trump kid Roy’s mentoring might not care what he got up to in the 1950s, but enough of his clients would to cause him some real pocketbook problems. Which explains why he and Margaret were trying to make it my problem, too.
9.
I eventually agreed to help. It was only a matter of time. If Ronnie’s in trouble, I’m going to do what I can. Plus, I never have figured out how to say no to Margaret. Part of me thinks that if I ever really do, she’ll kick my ass silly. With her devious task completed, Margaret finally let us sit back and enjoy the movie.
The same day that Indiana Jones makes it back to his day job as an archeology professor, two men from the United States government arrive. They’ve intercepted a German message saying that Indiana’s former mentor might be selling a dangerous artifact to the Nazis. The item is a bronze amulet that doubles as the headpiece for the Staff of Ra. If you put this headpiece on a stick that is the exact right height in the exact right spot at the exact right time, it could reveal the location of the Ark of the Covenant. I know that may sound a little overcomplicated, but you have to remember that this movie is almost two hours long. That’s a lot of time to fill. There aren’t even any dance numbers. So the movie has to find a bunch of little ways to stretch out the five days it takes Indiana Jones to uncover the archeological treasure that has been buried for three thousand years.
To be clear, I’m not complaining. If it weren’t for all the faff around the Staff of Ra, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet the monkey spy in the movie. He’s an adorable little guy, even if he is a monkey Nazi. It makes me think that all movies should have monkey spies in them. Can you imagine if halfway through Grease, Danny Zuko sent a little monkey in a leather jacket to see what the Pink Ladies were up to? Monkey movie magic!
Now for those of you who skipped Sunday School, the Ark of the Covenant is where the Ancient Israelites kept the Ten Commandments. They considered it God’s home on Earth and would carry it into battle, where the power of God would strike their enemies down with fire and lightning. No army could stand in its path, which made it a matter of national importance to find this ancient religious weapon before the Nazis could. Apparently God uses Capture the Flag rules. Whoever gets the ark home gets to keep the Wrath of God. And Jones is just the man to try and capture this flag.
While Dr. Jones is packing, his boss comes over to see him off and remind him to be careful. He warns that people have been looking for the lost Ark for three thousand years, and that Indiana shouldn’t take that lightly. Dr. Jones tells his boss not to worry. Jones insists that he’s a cautious guy. Then he throws his gun into his suitcase from halfway across the room like he’s playing Ozark Boom Hockey.
Neither of them even mentions the fact that Jones is going to miss school. I had a friend who was a teacher and, if she got hit by a bus on the same day that she won the lottery, she still had to send in lesson plans on To Kill A Mockingbird for her substitute. But Dr. Jones, it’s like he doesn’t care about school at all. He’s already hopping on the next plane to Nepal.
10.
In Nepal, we see a tired looking brunette drinking for a crowd of Star Wars extras. If you are worried you might get lost because you don’t know that much about Nepal, do not worry. The movie does not know anything about Nepal either. It’s nice. They avoid any ethnic identifiers and just make everyone look like a sweaty weirdo.
The tired brunette isn’t just any sloppy bar crawler. Her name is Marion Ravenwood and she is the best thing to ever happen to this movie.
Marion is the owner of the bar, Indiana’s ex, and the daughter of his mentor. I’m tempted to say something like, “That must have been awkward for the old professor,” but in truth, this sort of thing happens all the time. For as much as men like to pretend that they are obsessed with sex, they aren’t always willing to put the time and energy into casting that wide of a net. I have a friend who is a book collector. At least once a month, she’ll fly to some rare book shop or big book fair and come home with a suitcase full of finds. Before she goes, she spends hours making lists of books and doing the math on what she can and can’t afford. That is an obsession. Half the men I know just open their office doors, pick a secretary to harass, and call it a day. Sometimes I wonder if they even like sex at all.
This seems like a good time to say a few words about this movie’s attitude towards women. During my heyday in Hollywood, it was common for movies to have two romantic interests. One would be the angel on a boy’s shoulder. She would believe in him and the future they could build together. She would encourage him to follow his heart and stick by him no matter what. That’s who I used to play. We should all be so lucky as to have someone like that in our lives, right? And the other woman was usually some awful, brunette slut. It was that yin and yang, thesis and antithesis, push and pull that made those pictures work. The slut gave the boy new experiences and helped him find a love for life. Then, after she inevitably gets trampled by horses or runs off to have a baby with a jug band, the boy can return to his sweet angel for comfort.
The point is that you need both of these characters. In Indiana Jones, though, Marion is the only woman there. Which means that she has to be the angel and the slut. All the while, Indiana Jones can barely be an archeologist and a professor at the same time. He teaches for four minutes and then jumps out the window like a cartoon dog.
Action movies are already dangerous places for women, but now she has to get kidnapped enough for two. Even though she’s a spunky lady who’s successfully running a rough and tumble bar in the Himalayan mountains, she spends most of this movie getting punched or tied to poles.
It’s a hard role. And honestly, I think she’s great in it. Charming. Gorgeous. Believable. It almost makes me want to dust off the old acting shoes and give it a go. I’m so associated with playing angelic visions of wholesome feminine grace that people sometimes forget I’m also a pretty ballsy broad. If I played Marion, I bet I could be both. Throw a few punches before I let the broad chested professor sweep me off my feet. Although, of course, if I was in it, I would demand some changes to the script. Sometimes it is like the people who made this movie don’t understand Marion at all.
I’ll tell you this for free, the boys who made this movie are scared of women. I’ve seen it a million times in Hollywood. Some fresh faced nerd whose only friend is a typewriter shows up in California with stars in his eyes, but he doesn’t actually know how people work at all. All he knows are movies. As an actor–and as a collaborator, really–you want to help. You try to talk to them, teach them a little about the world. Who knows, maybe they’ll surprise you. Sweep you off your feet. Write you a role. But no. These boys never rise to the occasion. They’re too scared. They can’t look you in the eye. They can’t sit still. It would be easier to jack off a zucchini!
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not a feminist. I don’t hate men. I just hate boys. I think that anyone who is thirty or older and is still a boy should be rounded up and sent someplace awful like Siberia. If the Russians can do it, why can’t we?
11.
When Indiana Jones arrives at the bar, Marion seems almost happy to see him. As soon as he asks about the bronze amulet, though, she punches him in the face. What can I say? She’s spunky.
He offers her $3,000 for the piece, but she’s not in a negotiating mood. Then he tells her that it’s a worthless hunk of junk, which is a pretty stupid lie. If her dad dragged her halfway around the world searching for the Ark of the Covenant, don’t you think she knows about the Staff of Rah? I assume that the real answer is that he thinks that he can say whatever he wants to her and she’ll just lap it up like fresh milk. And for that, I hope she kills him.
Instead, she tells him to come back tomorrow.
After he leaves, she reveals that she’s been hiding the amulet under her shirt this whole time. As someone with a lot of very valuable jewelry, I can tell you that this is a rookie mistake. God made hotel safes for a reason. She sets the priceless artifact down on a random table in the empty bar and starts closing up when there is a knock at the door.
It is a gay little Nazi and three armed thugs.
The Nazis are even less charming than Indiana Jones. Their plan seems to be to torture Marion until the headpiece pops out of her futz. Little do they know that the amulet is already sitting on top of one of the wooden tables in this sad, dusty bar. Like my Aunt used to say, if it were a snake, it would have bit their lazy little fingers right off. Then, right before the Nazis impale Marion with a burning hot iron, Indiana shows up to save the day with his silly little whip.
I mean, I know that whips are scary, broadly. If I was in a Bloomingdale's and some guy started swinging a whip around, that would be terrifying. You know what I find scarier than a whip, though? A gang of Nazis with guns.
Hollywood is a dream factory and perhaps no dream is more appealing to men than the idea that they could probably win any fight in the entire world if they were properly motivated. When you watch action movies, they are full of scenes in which one righteous man has to take on a dozen professional killers and he always comes out on top. But do you know what professional killers do for a living? They kill people. And practice makes perfect. Have you ever been to a potluck and one person is actually a professional chef? Hell, have you ever been playing tennis and one person used to play tennis in college?
If I could talk to the men reading this for a second: Howdy boys! You know I love you. I think you are all tall and strapping and handsome. So believe me when I say that if you are over twenty and you haven’t already won a fight, you never will in your whole fucking life. Do you realize that there are people out there fighting all the time? There are people all across this great country taking boxing classes, and they aren’t even the ones you really have to worry about. You’re in over your head!
And if you won one fight in high school and think you still have what it takes to kick butt on demand, you’re bad at sex. Sorry darling, but it’s just true. I had to learn the hard way. Seven out of seven guys is 100% and that math doesn’t lie. It’s mostly just men who lie; and mostly to themselves. It’s how they get so good at it. Practice.
In the movie, though, the anthropology professor and the bartender beat up the professional killers before either of them can get seriously injured.
I know I’m being a little critical of the film, but this scene has everything I look for in a movie: big spooky shadows, a spreading fire, someone hitting a man over the head with a bottle. Genuinely, hitting a stooge over the head with a bottle was one of the biggest things left on my Hollywood bucket list before I got pregnant. After I had a kid, of course, I couldn’t do it because those cursive dicked bastards at the studios wouldn’t put me in movies anymore.
Once the fight is over, Marion tells Indiana that until she gets her $5,000, she’s his new partner. If you are asking me, she’s low-balling him. Back when I was living in Hollywood, it used to cost five, six times that much to make a lady disappear.
Copyright © 2015