Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny – Review

The popularity was perfect for Spielberg’s original Indiana Jones trilogy. Starting strong with Raiders of the Lost Ark in 1981, and rounding off respectably with The Last Crusade in ’89. But sadly that remarkable run came to an end in 2008 when the quick whited, whip cracking archaeologist’s return was met with tepid responses for the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. With the news of a further sequel in the works, fans were rightfully sceptical that this franchise would wind back to its glory days, especially with an aging lead protagonist in Harrison Ford. However, director James Mangold (Logan, Ford v Ferrari) looked to restore the once revered reputation of one of Hollywood’s true heroes with the latest entry – and expected to be the final – in the saga, the Dial of Destiny.

Starting with a structurally solid opening prologue where we are taken back to the end of World War II, the Dial of Destiny presents some hope at early doors. But then we are reunited with our roughed up hero applied with some distracting de-aging effects that seem to jump from jarring to justifiable often frame to frame. Accompanied by his colleague Basil Shaw (Toby Jones), they are captured by the Nazis while attempting to retrieve the Lance of Longinus. A McGuffin that is a misdirect for the real one which is the Antikythera, or Archimedes’ Dial which one half has fallen into the hands of German astrophysicist Jurgen Voller (Mads Mikkelsen). A foot pursuit takes place through the carriages of a moving train and our hero’s escape relatively unscathed.

We fast forward to 1969, with Dr. Jones now residing in New York and on the eve of retiring as a professor, receives a visit from Basil’s daughter, and his own Goddaughter, Helena Shaw (Pheobe Waller-Bridge). Her father’s obsession with the dial and the power it wields acts as a justification for Helena – with the help of Indy – to track down both halves. They’re not the only ones still in search of the dial, with Voller and his hired henchmen on their heels every step of the way. We get some Spielbergian sequences including a race through the parades in New York City, and a car chase via tuk-tuks in Tangier, but without that special Spielberg touch. Poor lighting and jolty editing halts the high hopes of Dial of Destiny’s more distinguishable moments, as it lethargically loses its pace and sense of splendour that the original trilogy was a trademark for.

There’s no effort to hide Harrison’s age here at all. An early shot of ‘present day’ Indy shows his physique as worse for wear and his attitude towards his neighbours suggests he’s developed into a grumpy old man. Not that there’s an immediate issue with this, until he’s seen fleeing fire power on horseback or dodging trains in New York City’s subway system, kicking it back like he once did in the franchise many years prior. What’s worse is that he’s doing it all in front of scenery that looks synthetic, removing that once meaningful production value which made Indiana Jones a household name.

Mikkelsen’s mad Nazi scientist is one of the better villains the series has produced. He’s menacing with meaning even throughout all of Indy’s roughhousing. The pair have some excellent exchanges and armed with some henchmen – played by Boyd Holbrook and Olivier Richters – this often messy movie works best when they’re trading blows.

Dial of Destiny is best in its final twenty minutes or so, when the movie makes a bold risk of ‘rewinding the clock’ and spitting our stars (and the series) out into undiscovered territory. A narrative decision you can’t help but feel would have been better suited for a much bigger portion of the movie’s rough runtime.

Being a fan of the original trilogy, I expected Indy’s swan-song to remind us of the series roots and to finally kill off the long standing scorn of Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Sadly though Dial of Destiny lacks the remarkability of Raiders, the timelessness of Temple of Doom, or even the longevity of the Last Crusade. Harrison’s admiration for this franchise and these characters is palpable, but Mangold’s murky direction gives it a messy finish. It’s time to retire the fedora and whip for good.