As the unruly band of federal agents, supported by the national guard, confiscate the bones, Larson begins a ten-year campaign to retrieve his treasured finding, which sees him serve around 18 months in jail. Caught in Kafka-esque courtrooms, professionally bullied by grabby desk-jockeys, ensnared in ballooning accusations, Larson is scapegoated by a stagnating governmental regime, beyond help from his contemporaries. Tear-jerking talking heads and deeply confusing explanations of aged acts buffer Larson's case, yet to no resolve. In a time where the whimsy of discovery seems just a Google search away, Miller's compassionate retelling is a warm nod to the ancestral art of adventuring. Yet the albatross of law weighs heavy on the director's neck. Bulked with infinitely drab case studies, we are too frequently reminded that the dust gathers around Sue's story at an all too rapid pace. By Dinosaur 13's conclusive finale, there is a distinct air of embittered triumph, but one that is steeped in unwanted nonchalance.