Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: B-

Anytime you dig something up, the fact that it’s still well-preserved, in whatever measure, is applause-worthy—I mean, the corpse, dusty as it must be after years of quiet disintegration into history, can still walk and talk and entertain. That’s pretty cool…for about twenty minutes. Then you want the nice talking corpse to go back and lie down for a nice little sleep, for, like, forever. The dead are so not meant to be raised. Yet, apparently, no one sent that memo to director Steven Spielberg (y’know: that guy hailed as, perhaps, the greatest director of his generation, if not ever) and executive-producer George Lucas (this guy you have to know already)—both of whom have gone off and exhumed Dr. Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford) for his fourth adventure in as many years: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. And guess what? It walks and talks and pleases (insofar as that the story-telling joints don’t creak too badly, the adrenal glands still churn along at an acceptable rate) and—surprise of surprises—somewhere buried deep inside does, in fact, burn a gleam of vitality in one young star trying his darndest to revitalize one very old film series that feels only older as the running time piles on up.

The camera starts out from the air, zooming down, and stays that way: in constant motion. This being one of Spielberg’s action films (one of his two fortes—the other is, of course, the prestige drama: see Schindler’s List, Munich, and Saving Private Ryan), the sequences that are full of motion are full of it—to the bursting point; and it’s perfectly choreographed and shot. And this being an Indiana Jones movie, the scenes that don’t hustle and bustle quickly segue to those that do. Remember now, Lucas first conceived of Dr. Jones and his adventures as a sort of anti-film, way back when: the type of movie that forewent exposition in favor of exhibition—screw plot and lengthy scenes of back-and-forth, how about trying to cram it all into one continuous stream of pratfalls and narrow-escapes—that’d be something to watch. So the audience got Raiders of the Lost Ark, claimed by some to be Spielberg’s most perfect film. Jump ahead two sequels and there’s even a nice walk into the sunset… but what about this? There’s the same spirit in its execution, and the sequences of verve and movement and daring here please pleasantly. But handing over the screenwriting job to David Koepp (after Lucas cooked up the story with Jeff Nathanson) was a grave mistake of subtly upsetting proportions. He reduces the film to a paint-by-the numbers attachment to an earlier, far better, trilogy. In the end, all that action can’t make up for all that effort: too little bang for too much buck.

Speaking of bucks, there is a young one of particular note: Shia LaBeouf as Mutt Williams, a rough-and-tumble kid who rumbles up in a motorcycle to be Indy’s sidekick. Not only is he the one relevant note played in this heard-it-all-before 122-minute orchestral movement, LaBeouf also gives him a wider breadth of life than anyone else on screen. His mother, Marian (Karen Allen), “Mac” (Ray Winstone), and even overseas greats like Cate Blanchett (as the Soviet Big Bad) and John Hurt are all left going through the motions of a performance that already feels outdated. Sure, they’re feisty and grave and grouchy when all of that is called for, but it’s all surface shimmer—gloss. Even a great Spielbergian hero like Mutt (who is, like all great Spielbergians, just looking for a family) is paid just the bare minimum: lip service. Once you start to throw in the wackier elements of the second act (in the context of a larger plot that sees the good archeologist battling Soviets for control of some really out there paranormal artifacts), and even given the aplomb of the veteran production team, well…there’s only so much that one really-cool image of the doctor scooping up his trademark fedora from the dusty ground can do for a movie. The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull suffers the worst of all sequels’ fates: even at its best, the effort seems a bit unnecessary—fleeting. And at its worst you just have to grimace for a moment and wonder, “Why?”