Like any other Indiana Jones fan, I found myself conflicted upon hearing the news several months ago that a fourth movie would be released.

On one hand, I was excited to see my favorite whip-snapping archaeologist save the world from ancient dangers once more. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Indy was embarking down a dangerous path — a path littered with the tattered remains of heroes who extended themselves into sequels when they were long past their prime (like Rocky Balboa and John Rambo).

But after realizing that Harrison Ford is by no means Sylvester Stallone (and would never emotionally tax his fans by an unwarranted return), my faith was restored to the point that I allowed myself to get excited — even giddy — about the movie’s premiere.

Last Wednesday, after spending $10 for a ticket, waiting three hours in line and paying what seemed like half my quarterly tuition on popcorn and a Coke, the moment had finally arrived. The excitement that had been building to this moment was unparalleled. Even the moronic whoops and cheers by the audience at every miniscule reference to previous Indy adventures became tolerable.

But two hours later, when the end credits rolled, I found myself struggling with a feeling Steven Spielberg had never left me with before: utter disappointment. I felt like a child who woke up ecstatically on Christmas morning, convinced that an official Red Ryder BB gun was waiting for me under the tree, only to discover nothing more than a box of Crayola crayons and a wool sweater.

After much analysis, my friends and I were able to come to this conclusion: the first three quarters of the movie were actually quite good, but the ending effectively ruined the movie. Ford was still strong, and even Shia LeBouf had moments of brilliance. It’s just the bizarre, anti-climatic finish that leaves you dumbfounded, shaking your head in disbelief while inaudible mumbles of disgruntlement escape your lips.

So where does this leave us? Should the movie have never manifested into anything more than a lighthearted joke made by Spielberg and Lucas while reminiscing? No. Although the end probably left people wanting their contribution to the $101 million opening back, the movie was still entertaining. But it will always be considered separate from the original three and not deserving of the legendary status of the others.

Perhaps the best comparison to the fourth Indy movie is Live Free or Die Hard, the add-on to the Die Hard franchise. A classic hero returns older and more worn than before, but instead of pushing the limits of tinsel-town magic to make him look younger (thus making the hand-to-hand combat scenes with men half his age and twice his size slightly more believable), the directors go the exact opposite way by exaggerating his age and making over-the-top, ridiculous action scenes that completely disregard reality and abandon any sense of believability.

As long as this is understood and the movie is not taken seriously, the entertainment value can be realized. Just don’t make the mistake, as I did, of anticipating another classic Indy adventure. If you prepare yourself and distinguish the movie from the rest before watching it, your experience will be much more enjoyable.

As I wipe away a tear, I vow to try to not hold this against Indy. Because when all is said and done, the Indiana Jones series will always be remembered for its trilogy of classics, and not by the absurd sequel.