One could argue, looking at the themes and box office performance of this year’s would-be summer blockbusters that actually we are in the “summer of our discontent.” Of course, I’m intentionally missing the point of this famous speech which observes that, in peace, those who’ve found power in the chaos of war long to return to those ugly moments that made them successful. Or maybe I’m not missing the point after all.
Much like The Flash (and as I understand a number of other big box office swings this summer), Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is not simply a nostalgic cash grab, but a film focused on the corrosive nature of time and of nostalgia itself. Blessedly, there are no “multiverses” to be navigated here, but we do see time travel used as a metaphor, a rather effective one, for the regrettable state of our present world. Central to the conceit of the film: how some seek the golden glow of remembered peace and adventure as a balm; how others seek a return to darker, even more chaotic moments as their salve for the inexorable passage of time; and how some (Indy) try to deny any of it ever happened at all.
As directed by James Mangold (who swam in similar “past is prologue” waters withLogan), Dial of Destiny is a loving, if overlong, capstone on the storied careers of both Indiana Jones and Harrison Ford. It’s quite impossible at this point to separate the two. Yes, Ford has crafted similarly iconic hero figures in other silver screen franchises, but Indy (at least to this lay-viewer) has always dovetailed spectacularly with Ford’s apparent “curmudgeon with a heart of gold” real life persona.
The film would have benefited from about 2.5 fewer car/horse/boat/motorcycle/train chases. It’s a lot. And for a film ostensibly about the emotional collateral damage of a long life (mostly) well lived, it’s a bit hard to accept so much wanton destruction of personal property and commuters’ sojourns for sheer entertainment value.
Much like The Flash, the film truly shines in its quieter character-driven moments. Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge (making quite a name for herself in the action genre) is a welcome addition. Her winsome brand of cynical, pleading snark as Indy’s ne’er-do-well goddaughter is a nice juxtaposition to Ford’s rock-ribbed “not this again” comic exasperation. They play very well off one another, although a few too many lines get lost in, yes, all the car/horse/boat/motorcycle/train chases.
Mads Mikkelsen adds another notch on his (shiny black leather) belt of playing icy Teutonic baddies. This time a full-on Nazi. (I do hope America remembers we don’t like Nazis.) Mikkelsen plays all the grace notes of sly sociopolitical critique in the early moments of the film when he “seems” to be a reformed Nazi helping America win its much-vaunted space race. (The film is set in 1969.) Given that such things actually did (and do) happen in America, it’s a pointedly clever reminder that the great U.S. of A. is not above reproach in its opportunism and global empire building.
We quickly find out he ain’t reformed. They never are. (Remember that, America, at the voting booth, mmkay?) His hope is to find two parts of an ancient dial, crafted by ancient mathemagician Archimedes, that will allow him to, yes, time travel and help MAGAfy World War II. More or less. “Yesterday belongs to us, Mr. Jones,” Mikkelsen hisses at one point. Kander and Ebb wept.
And thus kicks off a 2.5 hour rollercoaster ride (remember the cars, horses, boats, motorcycles, trains?) for multiple parties to find the dial and avert/create disaster (but mostly it’s just Indy vs. the Nazis).
Along the way, we meet friends old and new from prior entries in the series. Much like Mangold did so effectively with Logan, we watch a man (Indy) come to grips (arguably peace) with the tumultuous threads of his life, the disappointment of looking back on it all and realizing all he has to show is a (literal) retirement clock, ultimately warily acknowledging he wouldn’t change one bit of it, even if he could.
Admittedly, watching one’s childhood screen idol wrestling with the emotional and physical storm of aging is haunting, mixed as it is with my own awareness of how quickly time travels. I sat there, gazing at the screen at fifty years old, with the same awe I had when I was nine soaking up Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time, thinking, “Wait, is Han Solo allowed to be in another movie!?” Indeed, he was and is little Roy … and we have been all the better for it.
