If it weren’t for Harrison Ford’s aging features and use of advanced technology, we’d say nothing has changed since 1981, when three bloodthirsty moviegoers (Steven Spielberg, Philip Kaufman and George Lucas) created cinema’s most robust and enduring character. modern and returned to the classic adventure, which already smelled of corpse, its traditional essences.
Classic adventure, yes, clean and transparent, without alibis of any kind, based on the immediate pleasure (and immediate digestion) of movement and action and completely stripped of the tragic veneer that accompanied and accentuated the greatness of some milestones of the genre such as The treasure of Sierra Madre, Moonfleet or The Vikings.
And it is that the Indiana Jones films did not need dramatic additions beyond the dangers that the hero ran, because the kinetic force of the narrative and the dazzling visual packaging already satisfied our thirst for enjoyment: the scene of the truck in En in search of the lost ark, those of the wagons and the suspension bridge of Indiana Jones and the cursed temple, that of the tank of Indiana Jones and the last crusade and that of Indiana Jones and the kingdom of the crystal skull where, amazingly, prodigiously, the effluvia of Tarzan, Scaramouche and the ants from When the Marabunta Roars constitute, among others (in addition to the introductory sequences of the four aforementioned titles), exciting moments, of Everestian height, in the experience of the cinema lover.
We said that nothing has changed in these more than forty years, while the spirit of the show remains intact in Indiana Jones and the Dial of Fate, Ford continues to captivate the screen with his charisma and occasional touches of humor and adventure (which starts at the end of World War II, has its present in 1969 and you will see where it ends and with what psychotronic ammunition) is skilfully conceived as a mix in which plot motifs, new characters, action scenes by land, sea and air , details and gags refer, by virtue of the gratifying recognition via nostalgia, to all previous films. However, something important has changed in this fifth installment: the director’s signature. James Mangold, a solvent filmmaker with no personal traces, replaces an irreplaceable director here. It is surely an irreparable loss because, although Mangold’s work is effective, fresh, festive and energetic, the stroke of genius is conspicuous by its absence.
The initial sequence of the Nazi train or the one that takes place in Tangier are well resolved, but Spielberg would never have shot a scene as clumsy as that of the subway tunnel and the horse: Indy as a third division John Wick? Two final notes: Mads Mikkelsen is still the Jack Palance of our time and, surprise, Antonio Banderas is Anthony Quinn here. They could do a remake of Barabbas.
