Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny Aims Equally for Closure and Nostalgia

There’s a lot riding on James Mangold taking up the mantle from Spielberg to craft a new, and no doubt last Indiana Jones film starring Harrison Ford. It’s all the more fitting, perhaps, that the storyline of Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny explicitly evokes a love of the past and the navigation of an uncertain future, where the newest McGuffin has less to do with metaphysics and more with mathematics, as if this iteration has been scientifically arranged to evoke nostalgia and closure at the same time.
From its opening scenes, we know we’re in for something both familiar and markedly different, a mash-up that works well most of the time. The opening action sequence is bold and brash, but the flurry of shots lacks some of regular Indy director Steven Spielberg’s more calibrated shot choices (and for those wondering, neither the Disney castle nor the Paramount mountain is utilized in ways we’ve come to expect). There’s applause for a chase through a ticker-tape parade, then marks deducted for claustrophobically a motorcycle/horse chase is captured. We have a train chase like in The Last Crusade, but this time at night and in the dark, evoking what came before with a new palette. Over and over, there are these echoes to what came before, refusing to erase even what some find most egregious about the last chapter. (I, for one, defend Crystal Skull for being at least as effective as Temple of Doom.)
That’s embodied literally as we’re introduced to a de-aged Ford, and the results are at times remarkably good. At others, they still lean towards the uncanny. His voice is that of a raspy, aged man, but the smirk is there, and even the heavy CGI manipulation can’t fully rid the glint in his eye. Mads Mikkelsen is a fine choice for a Nazi baddie, while Phoebe Waller-Bridge as Helena does her best as Indy’s fundamentally an underwritten goddaughter. Helena’s motivations change more often than the hands on the dial of Archimedes, and we never truly buy that she’s motivated by anything other than the spirit of her father’s obsession (sound familiar?). Waller-Bridge’s acerbic air simply doesn’t convince when it leans towards the narcissistic or diabolical, especially when a perfect tonal performance is being set by Mikkelsen’s Toht-like take. A surprise appearance by a grizzled Antonio Banderas is minimally impactful, while the return of John Rhys-Davies as Sallah is more welcome than expected. And Ethann Isidore plays Teddy, a Short Round-like sidekick for Helena who feels even more redundant.
The motivations of the baddies are even more convoluted than usual, and Mangold leans into a body count that feels less Saturday morning serial and more slightly chastened ‘70s shoot-em-up. There was always a sense of catharsis watching Nazis die painfully in Raiders—with plenty of carnage, from the car chase to the most memorable of fist fights in front of a Flying Wing—but Spielberg held the true horror until the opening of the Ark, making that carnage feel all the more intense. Here, none of the violence seems to really matter, as loads of henchmen are wiped out in relatively uninteresting ways.