Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls (2008)

Indiana Jones is back, and he's in his 60s in the '50s. Get that?

Yet, the most striking change about "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls" isn't Harrison Ford's age or new political games, it's the change in special effects and stunts. The "how'd they do that?" magic is gone in this fourth installment.

Dig it: I still gasp and stare in wonder as I did when I was a young boy in the cinema at the sights in "Raiders of the Lost Arc" (that boulder) and "Temple of Doom" (that cart ride).

Now, here, in 2008, we have a CGI digital Shia LaBeauf as Indy Jr. swinging on a digital vine in a digital jungle with digital warrior monkeys surrounding him, and it's just bad. Choke on popcorn bad.

The seems and effort don't just show, they defecate. This is not the Indiana Jones I love.

At least the plot is standard Indy, and still damn groovy, I admit: Indy learns of a direly important relic, and spends two hours battling a variety of villains for it. Boring? Pfft. Why mess with formula, pal?

Honoring the films of the 1950s, the villains are now Russian communists and the mythology of space aliens is introduced, and we see aliens. Beam me up. This is not a spoiler now unless you've been in solitary confinement for the past decade.

The alien slant has been a whipping point for many fans, but I don't mind. The plot brings to mind films such as "Earth Vs. The Flying Saucers," and it's clever in its own way. That's what audiences wanted back then. Why not, eh?

It's not like "Temple of Doom" played like a documentary. And does anyone think the whole phantom ghost face-melt thing in "Raiders" is anymore loose cannon than space aliens?

Producer George Lucas apparently wanted to do an all-out alien extravaganza, but Ford and director Steven Spielberg kept him somewhat at bay. Here, the seams show, too.

See: Alas, the aliens are CGI, too, cause it's the rage. And they look all CGI. Not Gollum-like real, but all green screen crap.

FYI: Cate Blanchett leads the villainous Russians, and she's a treat, a hot treat, if not an odd tip of the hat (and whip) to kinky S&M theater with her big black boots and ball-busting knees. That's certainly new.

I dig the lady, I'd watch her read "Police Academy" scripts.

Indy (and Ford) is a different man than he used to be. He's quick tempered, a deeper and darker frown on his face, not as spry as he used to be, and that's a treat. He's 65, so he won't be the same man running from boulders as he did in his late 30s.

Alas, he still pulls off stunts that would test a man in his 30s. Throughout. A long opening will test anyone's patience, and includes a nuclear bomb, a refrigerator and a desert rat thing that is just pure shit. Truly. Still. Still. He's still a powerful draw, and I mean Ford here. It's charisma, kid. Han Solo. For cryin' out loud.

Karen Allen also is back as Marion Ravenwood, the leading lady of "Raiders." So strong there. So OK here. But, it's good to see her. An older lady, my mother's age.

Alas, a word I over use, eh?, kick my crystal skull in, Shia LaBeauf is the mysterious Mutt Williams, living the life of Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" with a bike, black leather jacket and love of hair. It's he who ends up swinging on that ridiculous vine. Worst scene of the film, by far, in one that has many worst scenes. Nuked fridge.

His entire performance and existence is ridiculous. This guy is bad ass in the world of "The Muppet Show," maybe, but here? He's less than dust. LaBeauf does not belong. Fuck him.

Spielberg is on autopilot here, his heart is not in the game, but is there any other Hollywood director who's as good at action spectacle on even low rpm?

You can't help but get caught up in major portions of the film despite major elements (red scares and blacklisting) being introduced and then forgotten, holes that loom large (in that jungle chase scene, a two way dirt road appears where there was none before) and heavy exposition (there's a lot of dialogue involving, "Well, so and so told me zzzz").

At one point in the film, Jones bemoans the times -- more is being taken away from us now than is given. Indeed. If ever a film called for the death of CGI done by fat nerds sitting at computers, never having seen a mountain or monkey upclose, this is it.

This is a stepson of the franchise that defined my youth, well, second only to "Star Wars." A bastard stepson. But how could it not be so? It could not live up to expectation. Never had a chance. They wanted a throw back. And threw up. On us. The audience.

Let's all not do 5. C-