Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny: The Delicate Art of Franchise Exhumation

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is all about the inexorable march of time. When we rejoin our aged protagonist in the film’s “present day” setting of 1969 (following an excessively lengthy prologue that flashes back to 1944), we discover that he has essentially been discarded by life and abandoned by the American Dream. His son is dead—a casualty of the Vietnam War. His wife, inconsolable in her grief over the loss, has filed for divorce. And on top of everything else, he’s being forced to retire from his teaching position at Hunter College. His students are too distracted by news of the recent moon landing to pay attention to his lectures; why bother researching the past when the future is now?

One notable exception to this fatalistic philosophy is Jürgen Voller, a former Nazi scientist employed by the U.S. government courtesy of Operation Paperclip. Still bitter over Germany’s defeat at the hands of the Allies, the not-so-good doktor seeks to acquire Archimedes’ Antikythera, an ancient relic rumored to be capable of literally rewriting history. Mads Mikkelsen navigates the role with aplomb, finding a surprising degree of depth in what could easily have been a flat, two-dimensional villain. No matter how suave, sophisticated, and confident he pretends to be, Voller is ultimately a feeble mathematician, not a soldier; he relies on hired muscle to fight his battles for him—because his own infrequent attempts at gunplay and fisticuffs usually result in spectacular failure.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s performance as Indy’s estranged goddaughter Helena Shaw is equally superb. Despite the right-wing blogosphere’s insistence that the Fleabag creator’s “woketevist” politics would ruin the movie, her character is a far cry from the girl power feminist wish fulfillment strawman that they imagined. She is neither morally nor intellectually superior to our hero—on the contrary, she is a compulsive liar and a petty thief; her greed, ambition, and opportunism consistently cause more problems than they solve. Indeed, her arc revolves entirely around gradually shedding her ruthlessly pragmatic, self-serving attitude.

At the end of the day, however, this is Harrison Ford’s show, and his (allegedly) final outing as the iconic archeologist is appropriately poignant. While the actor acknowledges the unavoidable fact of his advanced “mileage,” he wisely refuses to make it the butt of a cruel, shallow joke. Indy is no longer physically fit enough to punch his way out of every conflict, and he is slower to recover from his numerous injuries, but he nevertheless remains as cunning, resourceful, and doggedly determined as ever. But Ford’s true strength lies in his vulnerability; after decades of adventuring—plundering tombs, pummeling tyrants, and witnessing terrible miracles—Dr. Jones has accumulated a great deal of trauma. Normally, he hides his burden well, carrying himself with quiet dignity. Occasionally, though, his façade cracks, allowing the audience to briefly glimpse his repressed guilt, remorse, and regret. These rare, fleeting moments of emotional authenticity are captivatingly beautiful.

Dial of Destiny isn’t perfect, but neither is it the soulless nostalgia bait that many fans were dreading. Regardless of its structural shortcomings, it features actual themes—even John Rhys-Davies’ obligatory cameo appearance serves a clear narrative purpose. And considering the current state of the industry—corporations reducing the art of cinema to digital “content” that exists only to sell subscriptions to streaming platforms—that's got to count for something, dammit!

The Mandalorian: A Larger World

[The following essay contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Several critics have argued that Season 2 of The Mandalorian features an excessive amount of blatant “fan service”—and quite frankly, it’s difficult to refute that point in light of the fact that Ahsoka Tano, Bo-Katan Kryze, Boba Fett, and Luke Skywalker all make rather substantial appearances. I cannot, however, agree with the vocal minority that insists that this creative choice represents yet another example of the writers inadvertently diminishing the size and scope of George Lucas’ galaxy far, far away. Unlike The Rise of Skywalker’s revelation of Rey’s true heritage, The Mandalorian’s introduction of a few familiar faces actually serves the overarching story, reinforcing the series’ core themes and cementing the protagonist’s unique perspective.

The Mandalorian was advertised as an opportunity to explore the more obscure corners of the Star Wars universe, free from the narrative baggage of the Skywalker Saga. Initially, the titular bounty hunter’s encounters with some of the setting’s most iconic, important, and beloved characters would appear to break that promise; fortunately, the show manages to avoid such gratuitous and cliched contrivances as the “Rey Palpatine” twist. Din Djarin is consistently portrayed as a very small fish in an immeasurably large sea; even when his mission brings him into contact with powerful Jedi and legendary warriors, they always have their own goals, motives, and moral codes—their short-term objectives may briefly align with his, but their personal agendas ultimately take priority.

In other words, while Mando is certainly at the center of the action, the world doesn’t revolve entirely around him. To paraphrase Jango Fett’s creed: he’s just another simple man trying to make his way in a hostile galaxy. Indeed, when compared with the political turmoil plaguing the fledgling New Republic, the devious machinations of Moff Gideon’s Imperial Remnant, and the fanaticism and dogmatism dividing the various Mandalorian factions, his noble quest to reunite The Child with “his people” comes off as almost quaint and insignificant.

Star Wars’ evocative world building has been one of its most appealing qualities since the cantina scene in A New Hope; every creature, critter, and scoundrel lurking in the smoky shadows of that wretched hive of scum and villainy, no matter how seemingly minor, has ambitions, aspirations—a story to tell. The Mandalorian shines a spotlight on one such “background” character, relegating the “canonical” heroes to supporting roles—which, consequently, offers the audience a uniquely grounded point-of-view that completely recontextualizes the grandiose conflicts that previously defined the franchise.

The Force feels all the more magical when seen through the eyes of a relatively “normal” (or, at the very least, uninitiated) man.

A Tale of Superheroes, Sith Lords, and the Almighty Dollar

[The following essay may contain MINOR SPOILERS for Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Captain Marvel, Avengers: Infinity War, and Avengers: Endgame; you have been warned!]

In the months preceding Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker’s theatrical release, J.J. Abrams and Kathleen Kennedy repeatedly referred to it as the epic final chapter of the Skywalker Saga. Now that it’s out, all I can ask is... why? It didn’t need to be a grand finale; indeed, attempting to (artificially) lend the movie such (unwarranted) pop-cultural significance is arguably what ended up crippling it, as it required the writers to introduce more plot twists and conflicts than they could realistically (and/or satisfactorily) resolve in only two-and-a-half hours.

In many ways, this situation reminds me of another 2019 blockbuster that didn’t quite connect with me: Captain Marvel. The post-credits scene of Infinity War teased that Brie Larson’s intergalactic adventurer would be playing a major role in Endgame, generating a great deal of fan interest in her solo outing—which, not so coincidentally, was scheduled to hit cinemas right in between the two Avengers films. The implication was clear: “In order to get the full MCU experience,” the studio executives cried, “you must see Captain Marvel!”

The ploy was, of course, resoundingly successful: Captain Marvel raked in record-breaking profits despite its numerous narrative inconsistencies and timeline contradictions... and all of the buildup, foreshadowing, and hype associated with the title character ultimately culminated in a glorified cameo appearance during the climactic battle against Thanos.

In both of these cases, cold commercialism compromised artistic integrity. These products are obvious examples of marketing campaigns, revenue projections, and excessive focus group testing dictating the creative process—a pitfall that previous entries in each franchise managed to elegantly avoid. And that’s what makes these otherwise perfectly enjoyable movies sting just a bit worse than they should: Marvel, Lucasfilm, and Disney are capable of much better than mere adequacy... when they deign to scrub the dollar signs out of their eyes, anyway.

At the very least, they’re usually somewhat less transparently greedy...

The Rise of Skywalker: A Galaxy of Missed Opportunities

[The following post contains MAJOR SPOILERS and a whole lot of FANBOY WHINING; consider yourself warned!]

The Rise of Skywalker improves significantly on second viewing. Without the burden of anticipation, the visuals become more spectacular, the emotional beats more resonant, and the character arcs more compelling. The Tatooine-set epilogue in particular is a lot more palatable once you’ve had an opportunity to digest its thematic subtleties; director J.J. Abrams’ talent for mythic symbolism is on full display: the twin sabers and twin spirits that were once separated are at long last reunited beneath the twin suns where the saga began. The only flaw lies in who delivers them to their final resting place: Abrams and co-writer Chris Terrio make the newly-christened Rey Skywalker the custodian of the blades when Kylo Ren would have been the more logical choice.

I have no problem with the controversial “Redemption Equals Death” trope in theory, but I simply cannot deny that its execution here is somewhat... lacking. Ben Solo’s premature demise feels like a grievous waste of potential; he was the Sequel Trilogy’s most interesting character (despite his less-than-impressive debut, and quite contrary to his detractors’ insistence that he was a one-dimensional space Nazi/domestic abuser), and there remained ample opportunity for further exploration following his return to the Light Side of The Force. He’s coveted the lightsaber wielded by his grandfather and uncle since the series began in 2015; wouldn’t it be more appropriate for him to deliver the weapon to the world that they once inhabited, metaphorically abandoning his dark ambitions? Likewise, wouldn’t exiling himself to the most remote and isolated reaches of the Dune Sea (much like his namesake) be a fitting act of atonement? Heck, a clever and committed storyteller could even find a happy compromise to satisfy both sides of the “shipping” debate by having Ben acknowledge that he’s far too emotionally damaged to pursue a romantic relationship with Rey—at least until he’s had time to heal. Of course, such narrative blemishes are merely symptoms of the movie’s accelerated production schedule, and complaining about what could—or should—have been done differently is hardly constructive. Then again... it’s certainly not the only plot development that would have benefitted from a few more revisions (Rose Tico, for example, should absolutely have been the one to stay behind with Finn to destroy the Sith command ship, considering she was explicitly studying old Star Destroyer schematics during the substantial period of time she spent off-screen). I suppose the moral here is that studios should stop setting release dates before the screenplay has been finished; nothing good ever comes of rushing to meet an arbitrary deadline.

Recently Viewed - Solo: A Star Wars Story

Having returned from a brief (and much-needed) excursion to Ireland, I finally got around to seeing Solo: A Star Wars Story.

Despite its focus on one of my favorite anti-heroes, I wasn't particularly excited about Lucasfilm's latest offering, even leaving aside its troubled production; considering the infinite narrative possibilities for this spinoff series (as glimpsed in the wonderfully gritty Rogue One), an installment about existing characters seemed... gratuitous. After all, the Original Trilogy already established everything the viewer needs to know about Han's past; elaborating on those details could only diminish their emotional impact—right?

Naturally, I left the theater feeling as though I'd watched the very best of the recent Star Wars movies, by far. Yes, the plot hits the expected notes—our lovable scoundrel meets his soon-to-be lifelong companion Chewbacca, has his first encounter with the charismatic Lando Calrissian, and gets his hands on his iconic starship just in time to make the legendary Kessel Run—but they're stitched together in a satisfyingly organic fashion, resulting in a classic adventure yarn that could probably stand on its own merits, independent of the franchise label. I credit this high level of quality to writer/producer Lawrence Kasdan. As evidenced by The Empire Strikes Back, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Body Heat, Kasdan is extremely fond of traditional genre storytelling, and here, he tosses the Western, the heist caper, film noir, and that now-rare flavor of "teen rebellion" flick that defined the early days of director Ron Howard’s career into a big blender and mixes them together into a delicious cinematic smoothie.

It's a damn shame that Solo is currently struggling at the box office; I'd happily embark on a dozen more trips to a galaxy far, far away with this younger Han and his ragtag crew of thieves, cheats, and smugglers.

The Last Jedi: Kill the Past

When The Force Awakens was released two years ago, I wrote:

In The Last Jedi, Rian Johnson builds upon these themes, navigating the treacherous waters of the (ahem) darker side of nostalgia in order to reinvent this beloved forty-year-old franchise in as radical a fashion as when Darth Vader revealed the truth about Luke’s parentage at the end of The Empire Strikes Back.

[SPOILERS BELOW THE BREAK. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.]

Recently Viewed - Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

More than four years ago now, on this very blog, I wrote a little post about how much I adore Wedge Antilles. Looking back, however, I can’t help feeling that I failed to adequately explain just why the Rebellion’s finest fighter pilot means so much to me. To put it briefly: in a fantasy world built on a foundation of fairy tale conventions, Wedge is the more grounded, “realistic” counterpoint to the tragic heroes and Chosen Ones. While the Skywalker clan enacts its epic family drama, Wedge trudges through the mud and the grime, not a warrior poet combatting the personification of malignant Evil, but a simple soldier taking the fight to the corrupt politician that abolished his representative government.

Although I have always enjoyed the sweep and grandeur of Lucas’ iconic space opera (and I always will), Rogue One provides a refreshing change of pace, offering the viewer an intimate glimpse at the Star Wars narrative through the eyes of the likes of Wedge Antilles. It’s one thing to hear Mon Mothma solemnly intone that “many Bothans died” to secure vital intelligence; it’s quite another to actually see Felicity Jones, Diego Luna, and Riz Ahmed portraying the spies, saboteurs, and assassins who laid the groundwork that would allow Skywalker, Solo, and Organa to make history, even as their own names and deeds faded from memory like so much cosmic dust.

As a consequence of this shift in perspective, the War part of the Saga's title feels as though it carries genuine weight for the first time. Sure, we’ve seen planets reduced to rubble from orbit in previous episodes, but that lacks the visceral punch of watching a splinter group of Rebel extremists open fire on Imperial troops in the middle of a crowded marketplace. And though they publicly condemn such actions, the “mainstream” Rebels we spent three movies rooting for do not escape scrutiny; in his introductory scene, Diego Luna’s character coldly guns down a wounded ally in order to prevent his capture and eventual interrogation. He later justifies his blind acceptance of morally questionable orders by tearfully confessing that he’s been fighting the Empire since he was six years old, which casts a horrifying new light on the series’ central conflict.

All that being said, Rogue One should not become the new model for all future Star Wars films. The franchise is a cultural phenomenon for a reason, and Episode VIII should follow the example of previous numbered installments. When it comes to these side stories and spinoffs, though, I look forward to seeing how Lucasfilm continues to subvert, deconstruct, and redefine the traditional formula. If even half of them are as innovative and surprising as this first foray into the unknown, consider me on board for the duration of this crazy ride.