In the special screenings of the 2023 Cannes Film Festival, premieres of Christopher Nolan’s “Oppenheimer” and Greta Gerwig’s “Barbie” were predicted, but these two significant releases bypassed the festival selections. Instead, the spot for the crowd-pleasing blockbuster was taken by the new installment of Indiana Jones’ adventures, subtitled “The Dial of Destiny.” The film is anticipated, but almost out of habit: “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” had already brought the famous archaeologist in the hat back to the big screen once before. Even with franchise captain Steven Spielberg at the helm, the comeback was met without excessive fanfare. But another decade has passed, meaning that devoted fans have had time to miss him, and the producers’ pockets have had time to empty.
Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones in a still from “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny”
How many more adventure stories can be written about the tireless historian in search of treasures and tales that he’ll want to tell his students in lectures? In essence – as many as you want! After the fourth film, the adventures were supposed to be passed down to Mutt (Indy’s son, played by Shia LaBeouf), but it didn’t resonate with audiences. Instead, Nathan Drake (Tom Holland), Indiana Jones’s follower from the world of video games, took the place of the young seeker of great wealth and great problems, finally making it to the movie screens.
Succession didn’t work out, so Disney decided to do what the studio has been doing best lately: ride the dead horse of a cult franchise. After a flashback that diligently demonstrates a sweeping and lengthy chase (Nazis! A train! An artifact!) and quite convincing de-aging capabilities, “The Dial of Destiny” turns to Professor Jones’s retirement in the 70s. The peace and gloom last for maybe ten minutes: Indy barely has time to empty his glass before Wombat (Phoebe Waller-Bridge) – Jones’s goddaughter – appears with another legend about another trinket, which this time will help with time travel. Immediately, the bad guys show up, for whom the wondrous MacGuffin is vitally necessary. Mads Mikkelsen, who appeared in the opening scene, plays the leader of the Nazi rogues (but one of the henchmen, played by Boyd Holbrook, becomes the most charismatic villain).
Mads Mikkelsen as Jürgen Voller in a still from “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny”
It’s quite difficult to convey in words the tangible difference between genre predictability, which can be both comfortable and tiresome. In summary, “The Dial of Destiny” offers exactly what is required: a series of spectacular chases (special kudos to the moray eels), picturesque shootouts, endless forward movement on all types of transport, a valuable treasure with a magical charge, and harmless punchlines. Phoebe Waller-Bridge deftly jumps into the role of a hunter for a global discovery of planetary scale, director James Mangold diligently copies Spielberg’s close-ups and transitions, and Mads Mikkelsen reproduces his signature villainous squint.
Phoebe Waller-Bridge as Helena Shaw in a still from “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny”
But in the whirlwind of genre techniques, there is a lack of a grain of magic, common to adventure films. Nothing is born in the meat grinder of familiar tags: no chemistry, no attraction, no cinematic hooliganism, no heart-stopping before the mystery. “The Dial of Destiny” neither angers nor pleases, neither disappoints nor inspires love: it feels like, with all the positively charged signs, the film is absolutely devoid of taste, color, and smell. Like a drawn-out commercial with old familiar characters during the broadcast of the Super Bowl. It’s impossible to worry about the archaeologists on the run, or to enthusiastically follow the ups and downs, or to get involved in the vicissitudes with the artifact that everyone involved is juggling (and, probably, it’s not just because I managed to get to the screening at 8:30 in the morning). Recognizability doesn’t tickle nostalgic nerves (although, of course, there are those very cameos), but causes an unpleasant feeling of déjà vu.
The only indestructible and mighty entity of the conveyor production remains Harrison Ford, who is not broken by age, nor by a mediocrely written script, nor by prosaic directing. Tom Cruise is called the last Hollywood star of the classic mold, but no matter how much Ethan Hunt jumps on planes, he cannot compare in organic quality and breed with Harrison Ford, who is great even when he is just sitting on a chair. On the set of “Star Wars,” Carrie Fisher hastily fell in love with her colleague and later said of him: “When I first saw Harrison Ford, I thought: this guy is going to be a star, not just a celebrity, but a real star. He has a type like Humphrey Bogart. There was some kind of epic energy emanating from him, and he was completely out of my league. Compared to him, I didn’t even have a league.” Time goes on, and the status does not change: Ford holds the whip with genuine dignity and saddles a horse in the city center. But the artist does not need sentimental postscripts to cult characters, neither Jones nor Han Solo – the heroes are already loved forever.