When people talk about the Indiana Jones films, they tend to speak of them as a franchise, which is an understandable if flawed way to approach them, because it effectively draws a line through the prospect of enjoying them or reflecting on them as the singular narrative journey of a character. Indiana Jones has been box-office gold for more than forty years, something that the studios putting up the money to make them have unquestionably sought. And fair enough, too; the fifth and final instalment, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, reportedly cost $300 million to make. Anyone investing that kind of money would want some kind of return on it.
And yet, those who actually make the film, those who invest themselves into it heart and soul are surely seeking more than that. Harrison Ford, despite his long-honed media persona of doddering curmudgeon is far more savvy and far more attuned to the nuances of the characters he plays than his interview diffidence suggests. And Indiana Jones is a character closer to his heart than many. Yes, the original deal for Indiana Jones was for five films, but Jones, particularly at 79, did not need to be part of the final one if he didn't wish to be. Making these films requires the kind of physical commitment normally left to far younger actors. You've really got to want it if you're going to do it.
I can only speculate as to why Indiana Jones seems so dear to Ford, but from my perspective, it's perhaps down to two reasons. Firstly, Indiana Jones is a character for the ages. He summons the ageless appeal of the matinee hero, with the kind of roguish charm Ford may well have seen in the films he watched in his youth. It's quite the thing to be contributing to the legacy of something that matters to you. And who wouldn't want to be a matinee idol? Let's face it; that's what Indy allowed Ford to become, albeit in his own inimitable way.
But there's more to it than that. For all his charm, there's something complex, vulnerable and inscrutable about Indiana Jones. Taken as a whole, his is a fascinating character that only becomes more fascinating the more he is explored. For an actor like Ford - who's never gotten his dues as an actor of considerable comedic and dramatic class - he's surely been the opportunity of a lifetime.
Looking at the character's journey, I feel it is important to think about what was gained by having the second film be a sequel. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom establishes Jones' character as little more than suavely comedic, vaguely misogynistic smuggler, willing to trade an artefact of considerable cultural value for a big 'ole diamond, undoubtedly worth more in terms of money and considerably less in terms of archaeological significance. But his journey quickly becomes far more important; rescuing stones of incalculable value to their people, and even more importantly, rescuing their children from enslavement. Of all the films, it has the most disparate tone, swinging from out and out farce to some pretty compelling darkness. By the end of the film, Indy seems to have finally understood that his 'profession' is about much more than the hunt for treasure.
As a result, the narrative thrust of Raiders of the Lost Ark makes more sense; from the outset, Indy is on the hunt for the ark of the covenant to protect it rather than claim it. The film's climax - in which he ultimately saves himself and others by having the supplicatory instinct not to look at the opened ark - reveals a growing understanding of the powers of those things he seeks.
And of course, the real power of these items isn't their supernatural elements, but their cultural significance. The fantastical elements of the films are what elevates them above the implausible to the impossible, but they do not have to detract from the reality that underpins them; namely, that we are collectively defined by our historical narrative.
Indy has a complex relationship with these things. He often speaks of wanting to see these items in a museum, preserved for all and for all time, but of course, in the spirit of action and adventure, he'll risk his life to save something one minute and destroy countless others to save it. That's the paradoxical, comedic heart of the stories, and, probably inadvertently, the thing that most strongly grounds the text in its Eurocentric, post-colonial world. The global, by both the better and the worse, is ransacked by Westerners, whether the stated reasoning be benevolent or malevolent. It matters not; entire continents are merely canvases for adventure.
This is problematic when viewed through a contemporary lens, but history is history no matter how regrettable it is. And the Western desire for archaeological knowledge was essentially sound, despite massive flaws in execution and consequence. That the films render this is a manner in keeping with that reality is arguably better than if it didn't, because the re-writing of historical truths - especially when the texts doing so have the reach of these films - is inherently harmful. Far better to find the stories within the problems rather than pretend the problems never existed.
The personality of Indiana Jones remains elusive in these first two films. His ego is considerable, and his brash confidence both strength and weakness. His knowledge is extensive and his ability to improvise remarkable, but the emotional core of the man is hidden. In many ways, everything he is seems defined by everything he does. But there is one unlocking element, and that is found in the person of Marian Ravenwood. Her character proves to be of enduring importance to Indy throughout his character's journey, but the time, she serves to provide an insight into the recklessness quality his possesses, in that their broken relationship explains that somewhat wounded quality he carries with him. Though a man of dry wit, he is a quiet, largely introspective man when not in the field. It is as though his work at the archaeological coalface seems to bring him to life. The closer to death he is, the more alive he becomes.
By the time of the third film, The Last Crusade, we gain crucial insights into Indy's character, namely the extent to which his nature has been shaped by his relationship with his mother and father. The revelation that his mother died when he was (comparatively?) young cannot be ignored, particularly in his relationships with women, and while his relationship with his father is the central tenet of the film. Henry Jones, portrayed wonderfully by Sean Connery in one of his finest performances, cemented the film as one of the all-time great buddy movies, albeit one with a father-son twist. It becomes increasingly clear how much Indy's life has been shaped by his desire for his father's attention and approval, most notably by his choice of career; not identical, but not too far removed, either. Their search for the Holy Grail - in a desperate attempt to keep it out of Nazi clutches - is one endless caper broken up with key scenes of emotional weight. Indy still carries resentment for his father's 'obsession' with the grail, clearly associating it with what feels like unresolved grief for his mother. That unresolved grief seems to be something they share, with Henry voicing what can only be described as guilt over the fact his wife kept her illness from him.
When they finally get a moment to 'talk' Henry's eyes bore holes in his son, effectively turning him back into the boy he once was. Henry's comment that Indy 'left, just when [he] was becoming interesting' is harsh, but likely accurate from his Henry's perspective, and much more a reflection of an emotionally stunted man's inability to emotionally connect with his son than a reflection of the son's value. This is affirmed when Henry gives his son an emotional embrace after fearing he had died. The look on Indy's face is again that of a boy, but this time it is the look of a boy savouring the love of his father.
The two men vacillate between camaraderie and rivalry, ultimately realising their significance to each other in the film's climax, where Henry tells his son to stop reaching for the finally found grail, and to 'let it go'. At this point, and for the only time in the film, Henry calls his son by his adopted name of Indiana rather than simply 'Junior', a sobriquet Indy clearly despised. It affirms their reconnection and provides Indy with a level of emotional fulfillment largely unknown to him.
And it is there that we leave Indy until we encounter him many years later in The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Indy is older and more evolved. He's a war hero, but not above being accused of being a traitor, such was the red-menace paranoia of America in the 1950s. The real narrative arc is between Indy and his son, 'Mutt'. Their relationship is an important one, and even though Shia LeBeouf copped a lot of flak for his performance, the character is impressively calibrated, serving to create some interesting parallels and contrasts with Indy's own life. Indy sought the love of his father in the context of an absent mother, whereas his son's life is defined by the presence of a mother and an absent father. Indy's focus seems to have been to prove himself to another man, whilst his son's was defined by a restless need to prove himself one at all. And of course, Mutt has 'Ox', a father-figure he clearly loves. To an extent, Indy had a closeness with Marcus Brody, but a mother-like figure seems to have eluded him, which perhaps adds that slightly tragic dimension to his character's heroics that isn't fully explored until the final film in the series.
And it's the final film that provides the greatest insights into Indy's character. Not only does he live simply - which validates his mission to preserve history rather than profit from it - but he seems emotionally worn down by too many losses, too many absences. The re-emergence of his goddaughter, who he cannot help but call 'Wombat' (in echoes of his Father's inability to call him anything other than Junior), strongly parallels the Jones of Temple of Doom who effectively adopted Short-Round. Remembering that this is the first film in chronological terms, we see that Wombat's antiquity-smuggling ways are just like the young Indy's until the call of more noble purposes came knocking. And if we look at her journey, we see the absence of parental guidance and the corrosive effect of parental obsession, along with her resentment of Indy's absence from her life after her father's death.
The past - the spiritual home of the archaeologist - is given its most considered examination in this this film, and it's examined in a number of ways. We see Indy trying and failing twice over in the opening scenes, firstly to sleep and secondly to teach a class of students more intent on sleeping than learning. In both cases, it's the moon landing that usurps his efforts. The moon-landing, this 'giant leap' for mankind sits in binary opposition with the archaeologist’s determination to take a giant leap backwards. The allure of the past really does turn to dust in the face of a future so seemingly boundless in possibility. And the lure of the past is also the all-consuming obsession of the film's antagonist, Dr Jürgen Voller, who is determined to use Archimedes' mythical Antikythera in order to revisit the past and win the second world war for the Nazis.
Ultimately, his failure is spectacularly confirmed with the discovered and functional Antikythera transports heroes and villains back the time of Archimedes himself and the battle of Syracuse. Indy's desire to stay in the past is juxtaposed with the revelation from Archimedes himself that the Antikythera was only ever designed to bring time travellers to this one place in the hope that the future might bring the help necessary to win the battle. Both men ultimately fail for the same reason: the past is the past, and present cannot exist within it.
For Indiana Jones, the desire to live in the past was, in once since, the fulfilment of a life's dream, but it was also the only logical conclusion to a life he deemed as a failure. Estranged from his wife and struggling to live with his grief for his dead son, the message of the film in many ways is both simple and profound; one cannot live in the past, no matter how daunting the challenges of the present might seem. I can only wish that a few more reviewers of the film had been able to grasp this and apply it to their assessment of the film. If they had, they might have realised that their dissatisfactions with the Dial of Destiny were largely of their own making.
It's worth noting that despite accusations that explain away the death of Indy's son as a case of cast pruning or narrative efficiency, the death serves to deeply imbue the older man's life with a sense of lonely futility. As a result of being brought back to the present by his goddaughter - who does what is required to get him there and who has accepted that she needs him as much as he needs her - we see, finally a man who might actually be able to feel fulfillment. His wife is by his side, his friend is by his side, and his goddaughter is by his side.
So, how are we to view the life of Indiana Jones? What sense are we given of the soul of man? In the end, I think Indy is a deeply flawed man who has, despite his heroics, a bruised and melancholy core. A man whose desire to preserve the past almost seems driven by his acutely sensitive and curious nature, in that the present offers too much; that without the orienting pursuit of that which has already come and gone would find himself adrift in a world with too much opportunity and too little purpose. And let's not forget; all he ever really wanted as a boy was the love and acceptance of his father. What better way to do it than try to follow him into the past?
The Indiana Jones films are a love letter to nostalgia more than history. They are an attempt by Ford, Lucas and Spielberg to be create the thrillingly adventurous stories of their own childhoods and to bring that thrill to new generations of fans. As someone who saw The Demple of Doom at the cinema when he was seven, I can happily affirm that for me at least, they succeeded spectacularly. The thrill an ore-cart chase, the madness of hearts removed, the opening scene that put Indy in a suit a Bond-esque nod (lost on me at the time) are ageless pleasures. I adored The Last Crusade on release, and still do, and unlike many, realised on sight rather than in retrospect that The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull was an excellent film and a worthy addition to the series. Now that it's finally concluded, a complete saga can be savoured for what it is; the journey of a man determined to keep the past alive and, in the process, find himself. Whether or not the man ultimately succeeds needs to rest in the imaginations of viewers, but many of those same viewers temporarily lost themselves in the magic of his impossible adventures, only to emerge back into their own presents with a sparkle in their eyes and a sentimentally enduring fondness for museums and antiquities.
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