THIS REVIEW IS SPOILER-FREE.
by Jarrod Jones. When Harrison Ford rode off into the sunset at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, it was an indelible movie moment — remember, if you can, a time when pop movie characters could say goodbye and mean it. And it was meant to be the series’ last adventure, not just for the whip-slinging hero but also for Steven Spielberg. Ford had grown as an actor and Spielberg a director; that sunset represented a turning of the page for both men. For a long time after that, the Indiana Jones trilogy — rambunctious, thrilling, and, in the end, a midge sentimental — sat in a box set on our dusty shelves, complete.
So when Lucasfilm decided to go for broke and dust Indiana Jones off in 2008 with Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, making a screwy, genre-melding, decades-late retread so outrageous that it revamped the “jump the shark” idiom in the process, it was easy for purists to dismiss it. But Disney didn’t buy Lucasfilm to let its second-biggest franchise rest comfortably in our minds and hearts.
Now, fifteen years after Crystal Skull, we have Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, one last adventure (if “last” even has meaning anymore) for Ford’s iconic adventure hero. This time Indy’s directed by James Mangold, a snug fit for a middle-aged franchise like this. Mangold’s the quintessential modern “dad movie” maker; among his films are Ford v. Ferrari, Cop Land, the remake of 3:10 to Yuma, and, perhaps most poignantly, Logan, the gorgeous, brutal 2017 X-Men movie about their most popular character, who’s out for — yep! — one last adventure before going berserker into that good night. (And wouldn’t you know it, next year’s Deadpool 3 will serve as another reminder that “final bows” no longer exist.)
Anyway, Dial of Destiny, the fifth and (fingers crossed) final chapter in the Indiana Jones series, proves a depressing endnote for the Lucasfilm series. It’s a glossy, safe, and periodically maudlin outing that features flashback sequences that apply a shiny FaceApp mask to Ford’s ruggedly handsome 80-year-old mug, creating an “Irishman Effect” where it looks like a cartoon head has been grafted onto a senior citizen’s frame. If you ever wondered what an Indy movie featuring Random Hearts-era Ford might look like, you’re in luck?
Understanding the assignment, Mangold employs a few tricks of Spielberg’s trade, at least structurally. Before the film’s story begins, which boasts a three-way tug-of-war over the ancient doo-dad of the film’s title, an extended opening action sequence sets the story in motion, as well as its tone. Nazis get punched in the face. So far, so Indy.
But this sequence represents the directorial gulf between Mangold and Spielberg. Its pacing lacks the punchy fleet-footedness of longtime Indy editor Michael Kahn, so it feels longer than it should. (It wasn’t surprising to discover that Dial was assembled by three editors: Michael McCusker, Andrew Buckland, and Dirk Westervelt.) The youthful mask applied to Ford isn’t convincing, nor are the body doubles and digital scarecrows Mangold slots in for Ford whenever the younger Indiana needs to do something especially reckless. When we catch up with Indy in the film’s present-day — set in an equally unconvincing 1969 — it begins to dawn that we’re about to watch an Indiana Jones movie where our rough-and-tumble hero will, by necessity, be taking it somewhat easier this go around.
The onus of the film’s action scenes thereby pivots in some substantial part to Indy’s goddaughter Helena Shaw, played with smirking, winning charm by Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Shaw is an intriguing foil for Indiana Jones, luring him back into action by playing to his vanity during a vulnerable moment in his life where retirement beckons and his personal life is a shambles. We discover that Jürgen Voller, the Nazi Indy thwarted during that opening sequence (Mads Mikkelsen, very good in this), pursues a legendary dial constructed by Archimedes, which purportedly holds untold time-transcending powers and has been rightfully split into two pieces and scattered. Voller wants the dial to give the Third Reich another crack at WWII. Helena wants the dial for profit. Indy wants to put the dial in — where else? — a museum.
Mangold also knows he has other beats to hit and does so dutifully. Naturally, there’s the Dr. Jones exposition scene, only this time, his students no longer hang onto his every word with admiration and/or longing. (Why are we talking about Ancient Greece when America just put a man on the moon?) Once Helena and Voller’s pursuit of the dial converge during a parade/protest through the New York City streets, Dr. Jones begins his latest globe-hopping adventure to clear his name of a murder he did not commit, a plot point that ultimately goes nowhere.
What follows is perfunctory stuff, even for a franchise as seasoned as this. The sentimentality we hold for classic cinematic heroes, exploited obscenely in recent films like The Flash, is treated like a story point. The cameo parade that comes as a result is obvious (hello, Sallah!), mushy (I’ll avoid that one because of spoilers), and conspicuously dismissive (ditto). New characters are introduced to the Jones series, like Antonio Banderas’ Renaldo, who captains a boat Helena and Indy need at one point. Toby Jones plays Helena’s father, who’s haunted by the Dial and cracks a few of its secrets to get the movie going. Both come and go with little consequence; casualties of the franchise bullet train.
That’s what makes Mangold’s film feel so clunky. Everything’s in place because that’s the formula, and while Spielberg would wield newfound craft to make each installment feel like its own thing (for better or worse), Mangold’s approach is utilitarian. Functional. Dutiful. Dial of Destiny is missing the hard-scrabble, camera-in-the-dust fury of Raiders and the frothy gooniness (and gleeful bleakness) of Temple of Doom. It does come packing the squishiness of Last Crusade and innovates (?) like Crystal Skull, with a wild ending that’s more The Time Machine than King Solomon’s Mines. It’s a competently-made adventure made with some of the series’ heart but none of its soul. “It’s not the years; it’s the mileage,” Indiana Jones once said. The odometer rolled over on this franchise decades ago.
4.5 out of 10
Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is in wide release now.
Directed by James Mangold.
Written by Jez Butterworth, John-Henry Butterworth, David Koepp, and James Mangold.
Cinematography by Phedon Papamichael.
Starring Harrison Ford, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Antonio Banderas, John Rhys-Davies, Toby Jones, Boyd Holbrook, Ethann Isidore, and Mads Mikkelsen.
Produced by Kathleen Kennedy, Frank Marshall, and Simon Emanuel.
Rated PG-13 for perilous digital derring-do.
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