I can forgive the glaring continuity errors. I can overlook the ropey dentures of a faded sex symbol who makes a better table than he does an actor. I can forgive the writers (sorry, the Raiders of the Lost Story Arc) shoe-horning plot events into place with as much literary panache as a Roadrunner cartoon. I can forgive him escaping an atom bomb blast encased in a 1950s fridge, the three waterfall accidents with no deaths, the father-son plot line that was so well-hidden I only saw it coming a full three weeks before I even walked into the cinema...I can even forgive the unga-bungerisation of the South American tribespeople, coupled with the continued demonisation of communism by a Hollywood which can concurrently refer to it's own McArthyist schizophrenia while at the same time reaching for the Ruskie shelf whenever they need to portray a baddie intent on ruling the world.
What I cannot forgive, and will not forget, is the fact that three fizzy cola bottles, one lump of fudge, two strawberry laces and a sherbet saucer should set me back nearly £1.50 at my local Odeon.
Fuck Mayan gold - Indiana Jones should be making a beeline for the bastard pick-and-mix. A satchel full of that, and the cunt would have no need to make such shite films for his old-age pension.