Why Temple Of Doom Is The Best Indy Film
By Ian Nathan, Executive Editor
Steven Spielberg and I rarely fall out. For years now it has been a joyful meeting of hearts and minds, of my willing wallet and his absorbent bank account. We've been simpatico. But there is this one place we don't see eye to perfect eye - Temple Of Doom, the second of Indiana Jones' adventures, although chronologically speaking the first. Here amongst the vines and bats and gazillion cockroaches, what riles Steven thrills me.
The argument goes that Temple Of Doom is too dark and ritualistic with its intense depictions of sacrifice by the Thuggee cultists, Willie battered and plunged toward a molten death (by a possessed Indy!), and multiple counts of being nasty to small children. You can also chalk up casual racism (tee hee - "chilled monkey brains!"), sexism, an irritatingly shrill sidekick in Short Round, and all round grimness. And this was the one without the Nazis. Harrison hurt his back, George was going through a divorce, and Steven just couldn't get his mojo going. Well, that is the official line.
I beg to differ.
Doom is the best of the three. All those facets viewed as faults, or deemed non-PC, make it the film what it is - the best directed of the trilogy (a relative statement). Here it was Steven Spielberg flexing his muscles.
Let's begin at the very beginning. The first 20 mins. of Doom are genius. We greet Indy in a Bondian tux in a Shanghai nightclub at the tricky conclusion to a previous adventure. What ensues is a hurtling jitterbug of musical number, shoot-out, car-chase, plane-crash, raft-sledge, cliff -drop mania daft enough to make you laugh, but someone perfectly in keeping. Hey, anything goes!
We're back in Indy-land and no mistake. The feeling is one of joy not gloom - the blood is pumping, this is Indy neat, but with plenty of chasers. Now we're into the plot - granted the MacGuffins, that set of Sankara Stones, were a bit forgettable, but Spielberg's sublime gift for combining action and incident with narrative purpose has never been so alive. The notorious dinner sequence is ribald fun - when you're a small (or big) boy, itchy, scary, yucky things are the stuff of playground cults. Does it really demean anyone? After all, we are supposed to be in a heightened world of serial movie myopia - up in the clouds with Fu Manchu and Dr. No. Even then, the locals are equal parts decent and panto-demented. Exactly how many non-ludicrous Germans turn up in the other two? Watch the scene again to see how silkily matters of plot are threaded between the live eels and sticky beetles. The same heightened sensibility makes better sense of Willie; she's a parody of the damsel model (a trifle overstretched). I love the frothy chemistry between Kate Capshaw and Harrison Ford, and her wonderful squalls of put upon glamour. Look at Raiders again; Marion may start tough as boots, but she soon starts squealing away - they are not so different, blonde and brunette.
And what of Short Round? Did Indy need a sidekick to draw us in? Maybe not, but Jonathan Ke Quan's Short Round never deviates into the sentimental, and can lay claim to the most quotable lines, all dressed up in mock-Americanisms: "You call him Dr. Jones… Doll!"
Maybe it was the tough shoot, the discomfort with the storyline, but Spielberg was relying on instinct to drive his ideas. And given his precious instincts, this was pure providence. If we began at high-speed, we finish at full-pelt: the film gearing up into a self-reflexive joyride. You know the gag - a genuine rollercoaster ride into an actual cliffhanger. This is easily the smartest of all three films.
Doom has the best of all worlds. It is dark and clammy, but effectively so. It is a deviant, parodying the formula but a thrilling adventure all the same. It is rich and beguiling, mad and energetic. Force ten from Indiana Jones. And it is meant to be scary. It's also the only film where Indy actually succeeds in his quest to rescue a relic. I'm sorry Steven, we're just going to have to agree to disagree on this one.
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