Indiana Jones and The Dial of Destiny

Once More Without Spielberg

or

The Adventures of Old Indiana Jones

 

Released right before "Indy-pendence Day," Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny comes with a lot of promise and a few new wrinkles—and not just the ones on star Harrison Ford's face (although the opening sequence takes pains to "de-age" him as it takes place during World War II). This is the first of the adventures (with the exception of 28 episodes of "The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles") not to be directed by Steven Spielberg—instead it's overseen by James Mangold, who's no slouch having directed Logan and Ford vs. Ferrari. It also promises—with all the credibility that goes with the words "Farewell Tour"—to be the last of the Indiana Jones series.

 

Ford is getting "up there"—he'll be 82 on July 13th—and he's been joking since The Last Crusade that he'd prefer any next "Indy" film to be called "Indiana Jones and the Really Comfortable Bed."* Dial of Destiny doesn't prove to be that (although, he does spend some melancholic time sprawled out in a barcalounger). But age is catching up to the old whipper-snapper, and we find him in the year 1969—just after the Apollo 11 moon landing—doing more than the requisite small steps and giant leaps, certainly more than a man his age should be attempting.

Indiana—or as the world knows him Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr.—is spending "Moon-Day" in New York—the date of the Apollo 11 astronauts' ticker-tape parade—dreading it. He is retiring from his teaching post at Hunter College where his students are now bored by antiquities (including him!) and his teacher-prep consists of hitting the bottle rather than the books. He's alone; among the clutter of his dreary apartment are the unsigned divorce papers from Marion, one more separation in a life (and film-series) full of them. But, his class has one new auditor, Helena Shaw (Phoebe Waller-Bridge), god-daughter to Dr. Jones and daughter of another of his allies during the second world war, Basil Shaw (Toby Jones). 

We've met Basil in the film's first sequence—a protracted chase of planes, trains, automobiles, and motorcycles to try and claim back treasures from a Nazi plunder-train to satisfy Hitler's fascination with the Occult. First, they're after the "Lance of Longinus" (which turns out to be fake), then attention is shifted to Archimedes' Dial—the Antikythera—which is of particular interest to a young Nazi physicist named Jürgen Voller (Mads Mikkelsen). The Dial was considered the first computer, constructed around 87 B.C. and was designed to calculate astronomical positions, eclipses, and the movie would have you believe it can predict geological upheavals and...time-fissures.** The trick of it is, though, that the Nazis only have half of it. They need the other half to make it work.

Anyway, Voller wants it, and Indy and "Bas'" want to keep it from him. Indy has been captured by the Nazis (of course) and they want information and he thinks all those antiquities should be in museums. While he's being threatened by the Nasties, Basil gets captured, as well, and is carted onto a train for any information about the Lance. After Indy survives an execution (several times), it becomes his mission to 1) get on that train 2) rescue Basil and 3) get all those baubles while surviving machine guns and bombing runs by the allies. All done at night, the better to hide the extensive special effects it takes to pull the sequence off, somewhat credibly.

One becomes aware, almost immediately, that Mangold is directing this entry and not Steven Spielberg (although George Lucas—who thought up the series—and Spielberg are listed as Executive Producers, they're not involved in the picture-making). It is in the DNA of Spielberg-as-director to make any sequence a playful series of complications that his shot-choices link one to the other. There's a flow that he intentionally puts into his action scenes that instantly telegraphs information to his audience. Mangold tries to do that, here, but there's a disconnect between elements that is often confusing and, at times, seems jarring to the point of obfuscation. The initial action set-piece immediately lowered my bar for expecting a superior Indiana Jones movie—as good as the other four, certainly—and those who have criticized the previous films may find themselves re-appraising their gripes (although I doubt it).

That's the set-up and the 1969-situated remainder of the movie involves the efforts to retrieve the other half of the Antikythera, which necessitates globe-trotting looking for clues to where that might be. I've always loved that element of the Indiana Jones—the tricks, the clues, the puzzles and translations unearthed from the vagaries of time and Nature. There's mounds and mounds of that, with the concomitant parallel of villains riding the research coat-tails that get in the way and delay the satisfaction of the reveals. 

In this case, its the older Jürgen Voller, who has spent his time helping NASA with their rocket program and has gotten the co-operation of the U.S. government (specifically the C.I.A., in the form here, of Shaunette Renée Wilson doing a great "Foxy Brown" impression), and a couple of thugs (Boyd Holbrook, Olivier Richters) who have their own agenda, which is a bit more contemporary, even if they are less dramatically interesting. Throw in a kid-sidekick (Ethann Isidore) who starts out annoying and becomes gradually more entertaining.

Toss in helpers like Antonio Banderas (in too short a role) and old pal Sallah (John Rhys-Davies), and you have a nicely well-rounded cast.

Most valuable player, though, is Waller-Bridge, whose character, frankly, brings most of the energy to the whole enterprise, completing a series that seems to depend on complicated females of divided loyalties to play off Ford's adventurer-archaeologist. Sure, she probably employed just as many stunt-doubles as Ford, but her quick-witted delivery and expressions has the advantage of youth and energy. Ultimately, where Ford was previously the lynch-pin for audience identification, here, she's the character that may (eventually) engender trust to make things right, while Indy becomes something of a liability in terms of age and attitude.

The end-sequences usually are where things get a bit dicey in these things (especially where "the Wisdom of the Fan-Tribe" weigh in), where the adventurers reach the end of the road and cross over into mysticism, myth and science-fiction. And although, credulity will be snapped to the breaking-point for many, I found that sequence to be the best part of the film, worth even enough to sit through the tedious bits (although I tend to be an apologist for this series, thinking quite highly of Kingdom of the Crystal Skull).

No spoilers here, but given the rather depressed nature of the older Dr. Jones Jr. throughout the film, the fourth act makes perfect sense, story-wise and emotionally, and presents an opportunity—although one hyper-fantastically reached—to complete a series-long character arc of learning and yearning. Okay, maybe I don't "buy" how they got there, but, dramatically, the ends justify the means and presents something unique to say, with some real resonance, about this character we've followed from youthful arrogance to wistful dotage.

And the end-sequence before the credits? (there is no post-credit scene, thank you). I'm not ashamed to say I teared up, and it made me glad I saw the two hour-twenty-minute-movie even if two hours of it I found wanting. There was no reason for a fifth Indiana Jones movie—other than the thought that maybe they shouldn't go out on the fourth one—and the whole thing is an exercise in nostalgia. The coda only emphasizes that point. But, sometimes nostalgia is pretty important. Memories of the past warm the heart, enrich the soul, and make one step into an uncertain future with the hope of finding more treasures for the memory. Nostalgia isn't "what it used to be". It can also be a beacon to face the future.

But, I can't end this without acknowledging 81 year-old Harrison Ford for making another one of these when most of us hovering around decades of his age are worried about walking the stairs of the multi-plex without using a hand-rail. That's some stamina, man, I don't call how many stunt-doubles and digital-face-replacements were used to pull it off. That should be celebrated, along with the score by 91 year old John Williams, that still manages to raise goose-bumps and make the heart soar. 

 

If this is their mutual last movie, bravo. And thank you...for the memories.

* Me, skewing towards the time-chronology of the Indiana Jones series, wanted the 1960's adventure to be titled "Indiana Jones and the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test". Oh, well.

 

** Sure, you'll call bullshit. But, you loved the Ark of the Covenant melting Nazis, cheered when rafts were used to bail out of airplanes and sled on the Himalayas...not to mention pulling beating hearts out of chests, and were awed by the Last Surviving Knight Templar. But, you couldn't get past "nuking the fridge." The suspensions of disbelief among fans are more rickety than the bridges Indy repeatedly has to cross. How can one love the one and hate the other? I think it has to do with being a fan as a child and a jerk as an adult—you grow up but never mature. Anyway, I'm long since done trying to understand fans of the "fantasy" genre. They seem determined to destroy what distinguishes the genre from the rest—imagination and wonder. End of lecture. No, I don't have office hours and I won't meet you for a fight in the parking lot. (And...I stole your lunch).

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish (Joel Crawford, Januel Mercado, 2023) In a recent podcast I was participating in, one of the other folks mentioned that she'd seen Puss in Boots: The Last Wish. "Trust me," she said "You'll want to see this." I remember being a bit skeptical, but made a note that I should see it at an early opportunity.

I didn't—although even at this late date (it having been released to streaming and on DVD, Blu-Ray and 4K) it is still possible. And I regretted it, after I watched it. It is good. It's hilarious in places, even.

But, I didn't know—until I started pulling screen-shots for this post—that what Dreamworks Animation, and directors Joel Crawford, Mercado and crew were doing with this film was something quite extraordinary. I doubt most people will notice it (or even care) and instead concentrate on the laughs and entertainment value, which is indeed considerable. But, what I noticed is a bit revolutionary while simultaneously not. I'll explain after a plot summary.

Puss (voiced, again, delightfully, by Antonio Banderas) is in the city of Del Mar being feted by the townspeople, when the song and dance and ego are interrupted by the presence of a large giant who starts menacing the town. Utilizing one of the musicians' bass strings, the "Stabby Tabby" launches himself at the creature and proceeds to do battle with it in a proximity that the thing just can't handle. Ultimately, Puss escapes death a dozen times and dispatches the horrid beast...only to be crushed by a large brass bell that the cat (who might have resented being belled in the past) used to subdue it.

(Well, that was a short movie, kids!)

 

But, no, Puss wakes up in a doctor's office, a little shaken but defying the cartoon-logic that he's a flat as a pancake or has a bell-shaped divot in his body. Although he has trouble remembering, the doc asks how many of his traditional nine lives Puss has gone through. A quick montage of Puss dying in stupid and Darwin Award qualifying ways...eight times. It seems Puss is living his last life now, and the doctor advises he give up...well, everything he's doing...and go retire with an old cat lady and attempt to die of old age.

He decides against that until he sits in a kitty-bar—lapping milk, of course—when a tall, dark stranger appears sitting next to him. It's a bounty hunter, Lobo (Wagner Moura) and as wolves go, he's a "Big Bad" right down to the hairs on his chinny-chin-chin, dressed much like The Grim Reaper—right down to the scythe accessories he sports. He's a bounty hunter, but a particularly chatty one, full of complimentary talk about reputations and that sort of thing, but it's merely trash-talk as he's come for a fight and—being a representative of Death—knows he has to win eventually.

It's a lovely little conceit, but then the "Puss" and "Shrek" series have always been the most fun skewering fairy-tales and casting their tropes in different lights. The Big Bad Wolf, mainstay as he is in fairy-tales, of course, could be seen as some sort of opportunistic stalker, if you want to put it in an anthropomorphic, modern context, and here he's such a presence that he makes a fine foil for the Cat's foil, and intimidating enough that Puss does, indeed, retire to a cat-lady's house, where the sight of a litter-box makes him gag. "So...this is where dignity goes to die."

The plot involves Puss, a chihuahua-in-cat's-clothing named Garrito (Harvey Guillén)—who was stowing away at the cat-lady's— as well as Puss former fiancee, Kitty Softpaws (Salma Hayek), who are hired by soldiers-of-fortune Goldilocks (Florence Pugh) and The Three Bears Crime Family (Ray Winstone, Olivia Colman, and Samson Kayo, all delightful!) to steal the legendary Wishing Star for that talisman-collecting Baker-turned-Crime Boss "Big" Jack Horner (Imagine John Mulaney saying "Well, You know what they say—Can't bake a pie without losing a dozen men!" Yeah. He's hilarious.), even with the constant threat of Lobo/Death ("Why the hell did I play with my food?") lurking nearby.

It is, quite frequently, laugh-out-loud funny (especially if you co-habit with a cat*), not only because the material is inspired but the voice-actors are hilarious doing it. Pugh, Colman, Winstone, and Kayo all play their parts like they've just come over from "Eastenders" and their quick-bickering banter is fast and a little furious—they're all about "family." If your family is "The Sopranos."

Now, what's special about this here Puss in Boots flick is the art. Dreamworks Animation has always been a little bit behind the curve when it comes to their CGI animated features—remember the play-dohish Shrek?—pushing towards verisimilitude and life-like imagery, long after Pixar gave it up starting with Geri's Game in 1997. Now, after the envelope-pushing example of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse (which made an example of "playing it rough") they're giving it up.

Blow up any of the images on this page, and you'll see less attention to detail, and more to "the feel" of the thing. Just as realism and romanticism gave way to neo-realism and impressionism, the new crop of animators have discovered that you can do more with less. Here, the images are smeared, like paintings...or the way the old matte artists used to crate camera-realistic landscapes from just "blobs" of paint. Disney went through a "rough" phase of animation in the 1950's, but that was usually due to budgetary reasons. But, this is deliberate. And it is beautiful.

One wondered why Puss in Boots: The Last Wish was on the short-list of animated feature Oscars this year, but all questions are pushed aside after seeing the work. The best way to end this post is to post a few more images with the advice that one should skip the home-viewing and side this on the big, big screen.

* Mine (who is nameless), who loves a good Nature program about lions on the Serengeti, scornfully ignored this one, turned her back and went to sleep with a dismissive  scowl on her own puss.

Genre/Gender-Bending with Mr. Soderbergh

Written at the time of the films' releases

Haywire (Steve Soderbergh, 2011) Fairly standard actioner about a wet-ops unit for hire, and one particular freelancer who's beginning to suspect harmful links between gigs, directed by Soderbergh (written by past collaborator Lem Dobbs), with some unusual qualities of note. For one, the director stages his fights like they were dance sequences from an M-G-M musical—full-frame/full-figure (but without the Lion Studio's "stage" angle on the axis of the central figures). There are no tight shots, tight editing, it's all composed of mis-en-scene, rather than montage, just an angle/reverse angle one-two parrying between perspectives. It's tough, athletic, and the only real reason to cut away is if something goes wrong—a fluffed punch, or bad timing that creates a lull in the fight or a disconnect with "reality." There's no "lull" between hits because the way the altercations are staged you never see the connections, and there's no simulation of connection, because they're composed mostly of gymnastics, wrestling and fast action—the opposite of The Bourne Identity style of rapid cutting and implication of "hits." Soderbergh does something different with this style, while accomplishing the same intensity of the edit-dependent fisticuffs of the last few years. The most critical part, however, is who's doing the fighting, and that's where Haywire is really different and utterly dependent on its athletic lead.

Gina Carano, mixed martial artist—and frequent participant in "American Gladiator"—plays Mallory Kane, and she is disciplined enough to pull off the fight sequences with a savage speed. Any actress can train to look convincing, but Carano has the moves down for her character who is supposed to be a berserker weapon of mass-destruction, so there's rarely a cut-away or an insert shot to betray the use of stunt-doubles. There aren't any. 

So, Soderbergh (who also shot the film) keeps his camera out of the way and keeps everything and everybody in frame as best he can. We've seen women in fights before—fights with men (Tarantino loves to do that)—but it's slightly unnerving to see these, knowing full well that everything was done in-camera, with few editing tricks. The speed makes it a bit more visual—there's no 1/4 second adjustment/orientation lag between cuts—and more upsetting initially, but one does, as the fighting continues for minutes unabated, used to it (except for the question of what kind of make-up she uses to hide the bruising).

Because Carano is largely unknown except for her MMA career—she's fine in her dramatic scenes, just not great (but then, have I ever complained about Jet Li or Jason Statham's acting?)—the cast is a little top-heavy with big-name victims...Ewan McGregor, Michael Douglas, Channing Tatum, Michael Fassbender (the latter doing a fine riff on Bond coolness—of course, he gets his ass kicked in the film's best fight), Bill Paxton and Antonio Banderas. Nobody is required to do anything beyond displaying detached coolness. But the internal logic is there, so at least this one is a better example for the experiment than, say, Salt.

The girl breaks bones and furniture.

Welcome to the Crazy Club!

or

The Moon's Just a Cheap Shot Away

And what's good for the goose...

 

Soderbergh's next film after Haywire (if we don't count his second-unit work for The Hunger Games), also goes against the grain in the traditional genre/gender roles that we come to expect in movies—a dance/backstage drama movie, but with male leads.  Magic Mike is Flashdance with testosterone, the only thing missing is the "if you give up your dreams, you die" line. Here, the basic dream is moving out of Tampa, Florida...to a bigger venue, or a better life. The clutch of male strippers each have their own motivations—mostly money—and for them, the gig is a better alternative than slogging through a 9 to 5 job, wearing a tie. So, at night, they dance, flirt, tease, and as club owner Dallas (Matthew McConaughey) "pry the cash out of their purses."

We're introduced to the skin-trade by Adam (Alex Pettyfer) irresponsible brother of Brooke (Cody Horn), who makes a good enough living for him to sponge off by having a steady job dealing with medical claims. At a construction job that he's ill-equipped for, he runs into Mike Lane (Channing Tatum), who, despite seeing Adam as a loser, takes him under his wing, giving him a job as a "gopher" for the Xquisite dance club, where Mike, he finds to his surprise, is a featured dancer. Well, you know how these backstage stories go: one of the performers can't go on-stage—he's passed out from a growth hormone overdose, and so Adam must make his stripper debut.  Dallas and Mike watch from the wings and simultaneously offer an opinion: "Can't dance worth shit."

 

"But..that..can..be..taught," replies Dallas.

Wish the rest of it could be. It'd save us all a bunch of time. Mike's the hero of the tale, the veteran, "the guy most-together," but Adam is the neophyte and must go through the unfulfilling one-nighters, the drug problems, the crack-ho relationship, the debts to the hood-pushers, the spiral down to the bottom. Mike just goes home to a brewsky and a night of uncrinkling his Benjamins on the edge of his self-designed furnishings (the establishment of such a business is his dream). He's the cleverest of the bunch—Tatum developed the story based on his own experiences dancing in Tampa, so naturally he's the cleverest—and he's the most romantic of the bunch, mooning over a past-patron (Olivia Munn*) and very interested in Adam's sister. He probably stays around being The Kid's Obi-Wan just to keep her in the picture, because there's only so many times you can say "You don't want that in your life, bro'" before it gets tiresome.

It does, but it could be a lot worse. It could be "Showboys," and in outline form it resembles it, but it avoids the smarmy camp quality of that film by having a sense of humor about itself** and what it is (and what it doesn't aspire to, which is anything with an overt message) and it stresses the economic times that drop the unskilled (but ripped) into such night-work (day-jobs being rather scarce, especially when you party until 4 am) without having any pretensions about suffering for your art.  And the performances are fine, especially Tatum and McConaughey, who clearly relishes playing an out-and-out bad-boy with no shame. But, all the men throw themselves into the roles of buck-a-throw sex-objects, with a brio and swagger that's fun to watch—as long as nobody takes it for anything more. 

 

It's the old "show-biz is a rough road, kids" movie, but with a "y" chromosome in the script of its DNA, a morality tale with enough immorality to make it worth watching.  And it's a healthy thing for Soderbergh (or anybody) to be turning the tables on these themes with their built-in sexism—even if the tables have some dancing on them.

The boys break rules (but not twenties)

* Interesting role for her.  She plays a woman who plays with Mike like a boy-toy for jollies, but he finds, much to his dismay, that she does not consider him someone to bring home to meet Mom and Dad.  Dude...(if I can use the language of the film) Why do you think you never went over to her place??  As they might say in Showgirls "Denial's not just a river in Egypt, honey..."

** Reviews and synopses are saying it's a comedy-drama, though. No. No, it's not. It's a light drama (with sprinkles of heaviness) and some clever writing here and there. Maybe that hyphenate was there to attract the ladies (as if all the beef-cake and pretty boys wasn't enough).

Interview With the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles

Interview with the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles (Neil Jordan, 1994) I remember reading Anne Rice's novel of "Interview with a Vampire" many, many years ago and found it a dispiriting read. In fact, by the time I got around to watching the film, everything about the story had evaporated into the ether, like one of her vampires sun-bathing. I do remember the controversy of Tom Cruise being cast as vampire-manipulator Lestat and that there was much consternation about it. My viewing of it made me think that Cruise was the best thing about it, one of his very few performances where he stretched as an actor and a personality. The rest of it, if you'll pardon the pun, sucked.

Certainly, director Neil Jordan isn't to blame. His direction and general look for the film is exemplary, giving the film an elegant if decaying look—after all, vampires are immortal, so why would they be concerned with daily chores (plus vampirism is 180° from Godliness). Casting is fine (even if some of the acting isn't), and Jordan even throws in a couple of touches of the surreal, if only for the sheer creepiness the effect has.

Daniel Molloy (Christian Slater) is in a nondescript San Francisco apartment, waiting for his interview subject to arrive. Surely it will be an evening interview, as he is Louis de Pointe Du Lac (Brad Pitt), who is supposedly a vampire. Skeptical, Molloy quizzes him about the various vampire tropes, which he dismisses, the legends he says coming from "a demented Irishman". But, the coffins, yes.

Then, he tells his story—of how, in 1791, despite wealth and property in Louisiana, he falls into self-destructive depression when his wife dies during childbirth. During a drunken night, he is followed by the vampire Lestat de Lioncourt (Cruise) and after being attacked by him, is offered to be killed and turned into a vampire, "giving you the choice that I never had." The two become constant companions of the night-world, never again seeing the sun (in a neat little bit, Louis becomes obsessed with the sun, even going to see Sunrise: A Tale of Two Humans directed by F.W. Murnau, who, more famously, also directed Nosferatu, the first vampire movie).

But, the two have decidedly different ideologies of life...or after-life. Lestat is a libertine with no moral code, taking his victims at his pleasure, perhaps in vengeful bitterness for the way that he was turned without having any choice in the matter. Louis is appalled by this and regrets the taking of human life and would rather feed on animals, which is something that Lestat constantly mocks. He does make one exception. When a plague decimates the country-side, Louis finds a child (Kirsten Dunst) whose mother has died of the disease and turns her, giving her immortal life. For him, this creates a sort of ersatz family. For the child, Claudia, it gives her immortality, but traps her forever in the body of a child. She may mature, growing older and wiser in her mind, but will remain at the age in which she is killed.

The novel and film have become favorites in the LGBTQ community for its metaphorical take on hidden societies and non-traditional families, and one can see that point of view. One rebels, though, that the metaphor is ensconced in such an anti-life trapping. These vampires are murderers, and even Louis, squeamish as he may be at homicide, loses his moral ambiguities when it suits his purposes. They seem more like a cult to me than a healthy representational metaphor. Your moral mileage may vary.

And, these vampires are also incredible narcissists. Everyone is selfish to a degree, but these nether-folk would be death at a party, fixating on themselves, bloviating their philosophies and negatively-lighted world-view and looking upon the lighted world as merely a buffet to exploit. Given the era in which it's set, one would half-expect them to become imperialist and invade other countries.

But, what leaves me as cold as a corpse about Interview with a Vampire is Brad Pitt's performance as Louis. Granted, that he was only a couple of years from his true break-out roles and was still finding his way to matter as more than a pretty face. But, his Louis is such an opaque presence that he seems at sea most of the time, not able to make depression, self-destruction, or even drunkenness very interesting. He internalizes so much as to make any emotion he's trying to convey invisible to the naked eye. He's turned into a phenomenal talent as actor. But, at this point, he wasn't.

And while I'm no fan of Tom Cruise, one has to give kudos to his Lestat, as grandiose and theatrical a performance as he's ever given. Sure, he can go too far in movies, but, his Lestat is such an unmitigated purveyor of debauchery (and loving it) that Cruise could never really go too far "out there" and not have it seem uncharacteristic. His Lestat simply wouldn't care, and it makes it one of Cruise's best works, horrific as it is.