During the rattling opening sequence of the fifth and likely final Indiana Jones film, the archaeologist outruns and outguns a superfluity of Nazis to retrieve the Lance of Longinus; the Roman spear once used (according to Matthew’s gospel) to pierce Jesus. A younger Harrison Ford – de-aged and dead-eyed – dutifully slugs his way towards the plundered artefact only to discover that it’s a fake.
We know how he feels.
The first, tactile films in the Indiana Jones sequence allowed for behind-the-scenes specials that were the most exciting production curtain-raisers since Ray Harryhausen combined stop-motion and miniatures.
With a hefty $295 million production budget – making Dial of Destiny one of the most expensive action movies ever made – this should be the best counterfeit that money can buy. But at every turn – the uncanny de-ageing tech, a train carriage-hopping sequence that is unperturbed by speed or physics, a New York sequence shot in Glasgow – it’s a simulacrum, a cubic zirconia, a two-for-20 knock-off.
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In better news, it’s an improvement on its rubbish, cash-grab predecessor, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Mads Mikkelsen essaying Werner von Braun cipher Jürgen Voller, a German scientist who has helped the US reach the moon, allows for the whip-cracking hero to get back what he does best: punching Nazis and grumbling about it.
This time around, the intrepid explorer is joined by his streetwise, Tomb Raider-alike goddaughter (Phoebe Waller-Bridge) and Short Round stand-in Teddy (Ethann Isidore) on the hunt for the Grafikos, the missing half of time-travelling doodah the Antikythera.
It’s a journey that allows for some silly fun with Greek and Roman history, as the good guys ping between various international set pieces – a dishwater-dull scuba diving venture; a glaring, strangely unexciting Tangiers chase sequence – to prevent the bad guys from going back in time to change history.
It’s daft, yet no dafter than the grail knight hanging around for centuries (Last Crusade) nor the nuke-proof fridge (Crystal Skull).
Director James Mangold maintains a breakneck pace, an efficiency that hides a multitude of sins. But why bother to hire a cinematographer of Phedon Papamichael’s calibre only to lacquer every shot with a puked-carrot orange hue? Why did four credited scriptwriters fail to pen a decent zinger for Waller-Bridge? Why is Shaunette Renée Wilson’s CIA op the only character wearing 1969-appropriate attire?
It accordingly falls to Ford to save the day. The octogenarian’s gruff charm endures against the brain-numbing CG tableaux.
Both the veteran actor and Indiana Jones deserved better.
