INDIANA JONES AND THE DIAL OF DESTINY (2023)

In 1981, chutzpah whizzkids Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, still bathing in the runaway success of their blockbusters Jaws (1975), Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind (both 1977), became the movies’ supreme power couple when they teamed up and hit the jackpot with Raiders of the Lost Ark, a pulpy adventure full of white-knuckle set-pieces and its fair share of ghoulish goodness that further catapulted both the director and its star, Harrison Ford, into the stratosphere of superstardom. In the forty-two years since then, we’ve had three sequels, with a fourth (and supposedly final) one now playing in cinemas following several delays. The first and much-maligned attempt to rejuvenate the swashbuckling saga for the modern day, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008), was such a disappointment that one could only hope that this fifth entry would be, at the very least, passably entertaining.

This new picture, titled Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, is distinct from its brethren in several noticeable aspects: most noteworthy, of course, is the absence of both Mr. Spielberg and Mr. Lucas from the production; and then there’s the fact that this is the first Indiana Jones project to come to light since Disney’s lucrative acquisition of Lucasfilm (alongside seemingly every other studio on the face of planet Earth). For this new movie, the underrated and versatile James Mangold of Logan (2017) and Le Mans ’66 (2019) sits in the director’s chair whilst the cast is led by Harrison Ford (obviously) with starry support provided in the form of Phoebe Waller-Bridge as the rather vivacious but incessantly irksome companion to our hero, Mads Mikkelsen as the villain (who would have guessed?), Boyd Holbrook as the main henchman whilst Toby Jones and Antonio Banderas have small but likeable roles as friends of Indy. John Rhys-Davies also reprises his lovable role as the fez-wearing Sallah in a pleasant but pointless cameo.

There is some truth in the sentiment that any movie involving the hat-wearing, whip-wielding archaeologist with a fear of snakes is the bane of any film critic. Ever since he first debuted on the screen, Indy is one of those beings that embodies everything that is distasteful about modern moviemaking. In the world after the astonishing success of Jaws and Star Wars, kitsch became the in vogue thing in Hollywood. Style superseded substance. Profit was more important than principle. Soundtracks, toys and merchandise were now just as important as a film’s content; quick cuts and incessant, restless movement was passed off as action. And then cinema came to be dominated by the endless sequels. Obviously, sequels had been around long before the eighties – lord only knows how many Tarzan movies were churned-out in the thirties and forties. Heck, even here in Britain we had the Hammer movies and all their ceaseless Frankenstein and Dracula films. And then, of course, there was James Bond, 007; by the time Raiders of the Lost Ark premiered, we’d already had twelve Bond pictures and no less than three actors who had donned the tuxedo. But come the eighties, the whole industry seemed geared to the sequel: Jaws, Rocky, Rambo, Halloween, Police Academy, Friday the 13th, A Nightmare on Elm Street. The list never ends. The only legitimate blockbuster that managed to elude the curse was E.T. (1982) – but give it time.

For all of today’s denouncements that cinema is little more than a crowded, chaotic playground for franchises, sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots, those same arguments first emerged in the eighties – and the Indiana Jones movies were at the forefront of this movement. Made at a time when Hollywood pandered cynically, almost desperately, to the juvenile tastes and tastes of its young audience, the Indiana Jones pictures, unlike the slew of cynical cash-grabs directed by anonymous hacks that followed in their footsteps, were – for the most part – well-made and headed by well-intentioned filmmakers. But they were also, when you get right down to it, entertainment for teenagers that didn’t further the art of cinema, at least beyond the realms of special effects. Honestly, the fact that the franchise has been going for nearly half-a-century and has only five feature-length outings to its name is laudable. But in an age of cinematic universes and ‘legacy sequels’ like Top Gun: Maverick (2022), does Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny still hold that same peerless magnetism that the series once had?

On the surface, Dial of Destiny has everything going for it; the familiar tropes and trappings are all there and the film makes no attempt to reinvent the wheel and instead strives to be just a cracking back-to-basics yarn. However, the longer the movie goes on, the quicker the shine fades and the cracks become more visible. It goes without saying that this is no Top Gun: Maverick. Typical of recent Disney acquired LucasFilm outings, Dial of Destiny, like the Star Wars sequels, is, for all its technical prowess, a husk of its former glory. It lacks that same wonderment that the original trilogy had (particularly the first and third) and feels more like a box-ticking corporate obligation than anything else. Spectacle is a big part of this film, both in terms of its special effects and its production design, but it’s a shaky façade. The film feels more safe than it does memorable, and the set-pieces lack weight and heft thanks in no small part to the fact everything looks and feels like a video game. In particular, the film’s lengthy WWII set prologue in which a conspicuously digitally de-aged Indy – complete with an unnaturally smooth visage and enviably thick hair – at times better resembles a sequel to Spielberg’s animated Tintin adaptation from 2011 rather than an actual Indiana Jones flick. Granted, the VFX are certainly impressive for what they are and a step up from, say, Scorsese’s The Irishman (2019), but this Ford avatar still has one foot firmly in the uncanny valley. Sadly, when the film jumps ahead to 1969, that CG heavy artifice lingers like an unwelcome fart.

As to the titular character, it’s plain to see that Mr. Ford, unlike a certain other Lucasfilm character he made famous (or made him famous, take your pick), still relishes in playing the hokey, old-fashioned Bogartian hero with a passion for history and a knack for dodging bullets and boulders without suffering so much as a graze. There is some infectious fun to be had watching Ford, now an octogenarian, play such a mythical hero with gusto. Nevertheless, the sight of Jones becoming a gloomy, failed husband/dead-beat dad is quite a baffling choice from an artistic/narrative standpoint. Why those behind the camera would ever desire to remould some of the most recognisable and charismatic pop culture heroes like Jones, Han Solo and Luke Skywalker into a bunch of pathetic, washed-up losers that make Brendan Fraser’s miserable character in The Whale (2022) look like Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh has always befuddled me. Moreover, why anyone would willingly pay to see such characters become weak, withering shells is equally bewildering. Well done, Disney.

As for the rest of the cast, there is the intolerable presence of Phoebe Waller-Bridge who is, even in the most tactful and diplomatic terms, an unlikeable sidekick. What makes Waller-Bridge’s snarky character all the more egregious is the fact that several characters are presented to us – the best of which being Banderas in a woefully and weirdly small part that amounts to a glorified cameo – who instantly have more charisma and chemistry with Ford than Waller-Bridge does throughout the entirety of the bloated runtime. The only real beacon of hope amongst the primary players is Mr. Mads Mikkelsen, a true professional who always manages to give a role his all and elevate his part, often in spite of the weak and anorexic material handed to him.

In fairness, I still didn’t find this anywhere near as vapid and insufferable as the Star Wars trilogy of 2015-19, and when compared to its immediate predecessor, Dial of Destiny is a lot more punchy, amusing and fast-paced, though the runtime nearly two-and-a-half hours is excessive for such a formulaic plot. As to everything else, it’s familiar territory but without the zip and snap. The chases (via planes, boats, horseback and even a tuk-tuk), meaty fisticuffs, exotic escapades are high-octane and non-stop but it’s all stuff you’ve seen before and none of it leaves enough of an impression. The stakes also just don’t feel all that weighty; Indy going up against the Third Reich for control of the Ark of the Covenant? That’s solid. Indy going up against one rogue Nazi scientist and his horde of nameless, faceless and interchangeable henchmen? Not so much, I’m afraid. For all the problems one may have with the story, the corn and ham-filled visual gags and jokes in the dialogue are plentiful (“You should have stayed in New York.”, “You should have stayed out of Poland.”). But, again, I cannot, hand-on-heart say it made the film worth the price of admission – so I won’t.

The biggest misgiving, however, lies in the plot’s sci-fi edge which, as was the case in Crystal Skull, simply doesn’t work. Odd as it might be to say, but the fact is that when Indy’s involved with Abrahamic ghosts, Thuggee cults and Arthurian knights, it’s fine. When he’s taking on extra-terrestrials and time-travel? Not so much. Watching Dial of Destiny made me ponder whether it is even possible to make a satisfying Indiana Jones adventure today. Regardless of how talented the director or screenwriter are and regardless of how glowing their reputation is, or even how grand the performances from the leading players may be, the Indiana Jones movies are relics – and I say that not in a derogatory way. They were about a virile, vital, charming globetrotter in the 1930s, not a bedraggled pensioner living in a grubby and grim New York apartment in the swingin’ sixties. Expecting an Indiana Jones movie made in the 21st century to recapture the warmth and excitement of those made in the eighties was asking too much in 2008 and even more so in 2023. For better or worse, pulp-inspired matinees like Raiders, Temple and Last Crusade are a rarity these days and can never be replicated or duplicated in such self-aware times.

If you have low expectations and low standards, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is acceptable as an innocent, pleasurable and competently made Saturday serial. On a very broad, very basic level, it’s fine, it’s fun and that’s it. As far as I’m concerned, though, this instalment, despite some fine direction from Mangold, serves as little more than a dim and distressing reminder of how lively and full of bravado and charm those older movies were. Nothing here feels half as ingenious or inspired as the bazaar swordsman in Raiders, the minecart sequence in Temple or the tank battle in Crusade. The sole saving grace is John Williams’ rousing score which feels like a warm comfort blanket amidst the mediocrity that the score vainly tries to elevate. Perhaps all would be better if we just pretend that the saga concluded when Indy rode off into the sunset with his father and best friends by his side at the end of The Last Crusade.

ASTEROID CITY (2023)

As an exhibition of sheer star-studded spectacle, Wes Anderson’s latest feature, Asteroid City, is a typically sugary but smug delight. For the past few years it would seem that the perpetually busy Mr. Anderson is a brand unto himself and those willing to pay the price of admission to see his work know what they’re in for: immaculately symmetrical mise-en-scène, deadpan visages, oddball sartorial choices, creamy and soothing pastel colours, stop-motion animation, a story within a story within yet another story. Logic therefore dictates that if you enjoy Anderson’s prior work, the likelihood is that Asteroid City will be no aberration.

It goes without saying that Asteroid City is a marvellously, meticulously clever and dynamic slice of style over substance. Whilst watching the movie, I often found myself questioning what was real location work or studio bound and what was or wasn’t practical or digital. That’s not to say that the lush and conspicuously artificial aesthetics are overwhelmingly distracting or that there is no substance to be found, for the dizzying, meta-heavy story-within-a-story is written with wit and wisely played by the army of actors.

A bittersweet, bright, eccentrically cartoonish little patchwork of Cold War paranoia and Eisenhoweresque Americana, Asteroid City might just be Anderson’s most enjoyable yarn since The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014).

THE FLASH (2023)

There’s troublesome productions – and then there’s The Flash, a movie that attracts controversy the same way dung allures flies. Marred by multiple delays and a myriad of deeply disconcerting and seemingly endless bulletins surrounding the escapades of its leading player, Ezra Miller, The Flash was a movie that seemed destined for the danger zone. So, now that the film is here and playing in cinemas, was it all worth it? The unfortunate and unhelpful answer is that it’s a tricky question to answer.

For my money, The Flash, which marks a decade of that failed curiosity that is the DCEU, was shamelessly overhyped and is so cripplingly mediocre and at times such a mixed bag that it becomes infuriating, but I still consider it nowhere near as intolerable as I anticipated it to be and still far more digestible than, say, Suicide Squad (2016) or Black Adam (2022). Granted, much of this might be rooted in my low expectations in spite of all the buzz and press – needless to say, this is not, as one well-known filmmaker prognosticated it to be, “one of the greatest superhero movies ever made”. Hell, it’s not even the best superhero movie released this month.

But, as many suspected, the real attraction beyond the motor-mouthed and fleet-footed Ezra Miller is the return of Michael Keaton, having last donned the cape and pointy-eared cowl over thirty years ago in Tim Burton’s Batman (1989) and its even barmier sequel Batman Returns (1992). Whilst I harbour little love for either of those blockbusters, it is a testament to the charisma and commitment of Keaton that, in spite of having little to work with and being overshadowed by his hammier co-stars in the form of Nicholson’s Joker and Danny DeVito’s Penguin, he still managed to leave a footprint and remains (arguably) the most popular of all the cinematic incarnations of the caped crusader – and there’s been quite a few. Admittedly, seeing Keaton reprise one of the neurotic and offbeat roles that made him such a likeable screen presence – the other being Beetlejuice, which he will soon reprise again – is fun, but even the fuzzy and kitsch nostalgia wears off eventually as you soon realise you’d much rather watch him in the ’89 movie or Returns. As for the titular scarlet speedster, Miller is fine and goofy, but it’s a case of a sidekick being prematurely catapulted to a leading player and Miller simply doesn’t have the gravitas to carry a movie on their own. Also joining Miller and Keaton is Ben Affleck (a very fine incarnation of Batman who deserved better), an emo Supergirl played by Sasha Calle and Michael Shannon who, unlike when he last played the malevolent General Zod in Zack Snyder’s depressing Man of Steel (2013), feels totally one-dimensional and incongruous.

The most baffling aspect of The Flash, however, is the quality – or rather the lack of quality – of its VFX. As was the case with the likes of Prey (2022) and many recent MCU outings, The Flash, for all its obvious spectacle and eye-watering budget, features some of the most amateurish and unsightly CGI I’ve witnessed in a mainstream blockbuster since I began reviewing movies. The fact that films released nearly twenty years ago – The Lord of the Rings (2001-03), Pirates of the Caribbean and King Kong (2005) – have more convincing CG than movies being released today is a puzzle that would have even the savviest of cryptic crossword makers scratching their heads. It really cannot be overstated how shoddy and annoyingly distracting the CG is here in The Flash. It’s all a shame because amidst the nightmarish and Boschian landscape of weightless digital effects, some interesting ideas and touching moments do pop up, only to be bludgeoned and bombarded by the sort of deepfakes and graphical fidelity that would make a video game released between 2006-09 shudder. Some say that dodgy effects can be redeemed if the story is supple and engaging enough, but unfortunately the story of The Flash, despite the fleeting bright moments, isn’t all that interesting and even if it were, I am totally convinced that there’s simply no excuse whatsoever for any mid-to-high budgeted movie to sport such horrible VFX in the year 2023.

Having gone into this expecting a travesty on the level of something like Josh Trank’s Fant4stic (2015) or Hellboy (2019), I have to say that I think The Flash is still, warts and all, a serviceable piece of escapist entertainment. However, like the franchise it belongs to, it is a patchy affair with plenty of unfortunate and unwanted blemishes and the fact that another – and far superior – multiverse movie also based on a popular comic book IP is also playing in cinemas side-by-side with The Flash doesn’t help.

SPIDER-MAN: ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE (2023)

After umpteen versions, we all thought we’d seen the best of New York’s webhead. Then in December 2018, a unique animation crawled its way to the big screen and unexpectedly wowed audiences with its incomparable visual wit and flair. Netting the perfect balance of vibrant visuals, heartfelt characters and razor-sharp nods to some of the more ‘out there’ corners of Spidey lore, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse was (and still is) a brilliant, bonkers movie.

Now, after several years (and several unfortunate setbacks), the second chapter in the saga has now reached cinemas. As is the case with most sequels to a fresh and near-incomparable piece of work, the novelty of the first movie may be absent but Across the Spider-Verse still retains much of the absurd vitality that its predecessor had in spades. The plot sees us joining Miles Morales, once again voiced with that believable sense of wonderment and soul by Shameik Moore, as he zooms across the multiverses, encountering an endless array of parallel Spider-people including a Spidey from 2099, a punk-rocker Spider-Man and a webslinger from India.

The tidal wave of gags and references come so thick and freakishly fast and with such playful irreverence that you’ll never process them in just one viewing, but the slew of characters are so wacky and the quality of the striking draughtsmanship is nothing less than exquisite. Another major boon in the film’s corner is the villain who, unlike Kingpin in the first Spider-Verse movie, is such a goofball that you can’t help but adore him. One’s only genuine complaint, which admittedly may prove to be a minor quibble in the grand scheme of things, is how the final act is little more than a set-up for the third part. For a film that moves with the pace of a rocket launch, an ending as abrupt as the one here is so jarring in almost results in severe whiplash.

Still, as a cornucopia of graphic charm and colour, Across the Spider-Verse is, for all its narrative headiness and kaleidoscopic stimulation, a suitably sparkling and surreal spectacle of the first order. It’s a dizzying, dazzling adventure but what is most surprising is that, in spite of the breakneck brevity and hectic onslaught of rousing, relentless action and endless torrent of eccentric and obscure characters, one never loses sight of the core elements that make this film – or any film, for that matter – special; namely the story and the characters.

On all fronts the thrilling, pleasurable and infectiously giddy Across the Spider-Verse works: as a comic book superhero yarn, as an animated feature and as a sequel. For sheer breathlessness and boundary-pushing boldness, this might be the most ‘out there’ blockbuster since Mad Max: Fury Road (2015).