Indiana Jones and the dial of destiny

Rewatching the original Indiana Jones trilogy, one is particularly struck by the prodigious nature of Spielberg’s craft - it’s almost dizzying in its sheer visual inventiveness. Any individual sequence - such as the madcap opening of Temple of Doom, which effortlessly merges action, humor and suspense (on the heels of a full-blown musical number!) with laser-cut precision editing and a nonstop battery of visual gags - packs more cinematic expression than most filmmakers manage in an entire film (if not career). Spielberg is one of the few directors who never loses sight of the essence of the medium; the screen is his canvas, and he sees the world through its dimensions.

It’s an increasingly rare skillset, and one of the (many) reasons an Indiana Jones film without Spielberg at the helm is largely unthinkable (the original trilogy set a standard that even Spielberg himself has struggled to match - as evidenced by his much-maligned fourth entry Kingdom of the Crystal Skull… but even Spielberg in severely diluted form still runs rings around most other directors). That being said, if you had to turn the reins over to someone else, James Mangold isn’t an unreasonable choice, on the surface - a malleable filmmaker who isn’t limited to any particular genre or style and has managed an impressively diverse resume (including the likes of Logan, Walk the Line, 3:10 to Yuma, and Ford vs Ferrari). Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, the fifth (and presumably final) whip-cracking adventure, sees Mangold working comfortably within the series formula. It opens with Indy (played, as always, by Harrison Ford) doing what Indy does best - fighting Nazis at the height of World War II (the de-aging technology used to restore Ford to his 80s prime is a mixed bag - some shots look outstanding, while others have the artificiality of a video game cut-scene). The sequence rambles on much too long (Spielberg, a master of narrative brevity, likely would have sliced it in half), but it lays the necessary groundwork…

… as the story jumps to 1969 and picks up with an older, creakier Indy (taking full advantage of Ford’s marvelously sourpuss demeanor), his adventuring days long behind him and prepping for retirement from academia. There’s an unexpectedly mournful shade to these establishing scenes and they’re probably the aspect of the story best suited to Mangold’s dramatic sensibilities (he didn’t direct the most existential of comic book movies in Logan for nothing). But then Indy’s estranged goddaughter Helena (Phoebe Waller-Bridge) shows up, looking for the Archimedes-crafted titular artifact that he and her father (Toby Jones) acquired during WWII, and before you can hum the opening bars of the iconic John Williams theme, it’s another race against the Nazis, led by astrophysicist Jurgen Voller (Mads Mikkelsen) (Voller, it turns out, has been utilized by the CIA to help America win the space race; a clever conceit designed to resurrect Indy’s go-to antagonists in spite of the year, though one wishes Shaunette Renee Wilson played a more substantial role as Voller’s Foxy Brown-esque handler).     

Dial of Destiny is consistently functional, though rarely rousing… at least in the way the original films were rousing (which may seem like an impossible assignment, but that’s what you get for taking on a sequel to the absolute gold standard when it comes to cinematic adventure - adapt a Clive Cussler novel if you’d like a lower bar). As a filmmaker, Mangold has surprisingly little sense of fun, and exhibits almost no perception of visual wit - he handles the logistics of the action set pieces with great professional competency, but almost none of Spielberg’s crackerjack showmanship or impeccable timing… engaging on a basic level, but somewhat lugubrious (a scuba sequence on the ocean’s floor could desperately have used a touch of that old Indy spit & shine). What Mangold does manage, however, is to coax a hell of a performance from Ford. It’s remarkable how, even at age 80, the screen legend has barely lost a step in his signature role… and he grapples with Indy’s mortality and regrets in a way that cuts uncommonly deep for a summer crowdpleaser. Waller-Bridge, meanwhile, all but effortlessly aligns with the franchise’s tonal wavelength - she wouldn’t feel out of place in Raiders of the Lost Ark (which makes the clumsy attempts to denounce her character as yet another byproduct of Disney’s so-called “wokeism” all the more witless). On the other hand, Helena’s Moroccan sidekick Teddy is a bit of a head-scratcher; he’s basically a dollar-store Short-Round - right down to the origin story - and the pale comparison does the film no favors. Mikkelsen, for his part, remains a study in reliably sturdy villainy - few actors convey more through a facial expression that rarely twitches. ​

Dial of Destiny suffers from a similar problem that plagued Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, which is a frustratingly vague set of stakes (one of the best things about Last Crusade is the ironclad simplicity of its “Nazis + Holy Grail = Bad” equation). Unlike the latter, however, Mangold’s film eventually shows its hand and it sets the stage for a fearless creative swing in the third act… one that finally sparks the priceless thrill of experiencing Indiana Jones in uncharted territory (some have chafed at the narrative choice, but you might have noticed that the franchise has never exactly been tethered to reality). And just when it appears the movie is shaping up for a bittersweet, No Time to Die-style denouement, Mangold - in one of his more inspired flourishes - shuts it down with a visual pivot worthy of Spielberg himself. The sendoff ultimately feels a lot more appropriate and satisfying than the “fan fiction”-flavored conclusion of Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Dial of Destiny would most likely be boxed and stored in a crate stamped “acceptable”… it inspires neither adoration nor particular dislike… but it’s worth appreciating the opportunity for one last adventure. After all, there’s still a bit of residual magic left in the creases of that battered old brown fedora.