The Village Beneath

When I heard Stephen Speilberg describing his new Indiana Jones' movie (Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull) as the result of endless prodding by studio execs and fans, I was still giddily excited by the prospect of a new installment in the series. Because of this, I ignored the nagging feeling that Indiana Jones was going to follow Star Wars into the collection of classic series that have had their graves stomped on by studios eager to make a quick and lazy buck.

I should really learn to trust my instincts more.

For me Indiana Jones films are among that collection of pictures that got me hooked on movies from an early age. At six I remember having Temple of Doom turned off halfway through because my mum deemed that heart gouging-out scene to be too scary.

This forbidden element only heightened my fascination with the series. At nine, The Last Crusade (and my disturbing obsesson with Sean Connery) turned my budding fascination into religious devotion. There was something gloriously fun and romantic about that film that captured me and wouldn't let go. 

Maybe it was because I was nine. But watching them again, I can't help feeling still that those films are examples of big Hollywood blockbusters at their pre-cynical, and slightly camp, best. Where else can you imagine the main character impersonating a Scottish artist before hitting a German butler and then scrounging Hitler's autograph?

Although The Last Crusade returned to the old formula of baddies vs goodies searching for important artefact, the potent, incense-infused mythology surrounding the Holy Grail, as well as its touching and funny portrayal of the father and son relationship, stopped the film from crossing into mawkishness.

Crystal Skull attempts the same feat with the same formula. It struggles because it fails to join up all of its constituent elements with those touches of humanity, subtle humour and mood which made the other films so intoxicating. 

It is true that Crystal Skull is highly enjoyable at times. Most of the set pieces, taken on their own, are impressive and entertaining. Standing out in particular are a motorcycle chase through an Ivy League college and a fantastically choreographed charge through the Amazonian jungle in military vehicles.

What this film lacks is plausible characterisation. Old characters, such as Marion, just turn up for no apparent reason other "this is a sequel". It suffers from the lack of an interesting main villain (a la Walter Donovan) to pull the story along and give the watcher an emotional stake in the finale.

As a result, I didn't see the Cate Blanchett character as a real person, more a plot device. Unfortunately she, like Marion and even Indy at times, ends up seeming cartoonish and out of place.

This characterisation affects the whole experience. Because I don't know why any of these characters care that much about what they are looking for, I don't care about whether they find it or whether they got hurt or lost in the process. Especially towards the end, this film becomes more a succession of disparate, unbelievable setpieces involving hollow action figures (Shia LaBeouf's portayal of Indy's new sidekick is the key exception).

Just before embarking on Indiana Jones in the late 70s, Speilberg said he wanted his next project to be reminiscent of the James Bond films. But his Indy movies in the 1980s were actually much better than the contemporaneous secret agent flicks. They were romantic, fun and sometimes moving and scary. For all of its impressive lineage, Crystal Skull resembles some of the very worst Bond films (try The World is Not Enough and Die Another Day).

When I look back on it, the publicity and talk about what was coming never pretended that Crystal Skull would be anything more than a formulaic money-spinner. I just wish Speilberg's soul had managed to creep in there somewhere. Indiana Jones was for me an iconic exaple of blockbusters at their best. In that pantheon, the film can't measure up.
  

When it’s genuinely hot, London can be the most spectacular and delicious city in Europe . Because it doesn’t expect it, the city laps up the sun with a delightful greed.

On those rare sub-tropical days, Londoners adapt instantly, transforming from cold, grim workaholics into jovial Mediterraneans with pasty legs. It’s as if all the months of bitter wind and ubiquitous fog-rain never happened at all.  In the sun, London comes out as bubbly and infectious.

A week ago, London was drunk on summer after three days of heat; languid, cheerful and sexy. In Soho , the café goers finally got a chance to use the outside chairs without the need for a scarf and mittens.

I grew accustomed to watching happy couples and families lounging on Primrose Hill as I ran past. People started to smile while walking down the street. Ice cream became a real possibility. I got giddy at hearing the off-key, slightly creepy rendition of the Teddy Bear’s Picnic from the ice-cream van that stops outside in our mews.

We even had a barbeque. True I had to fetch my woolly jumper towards the end and my shivering fingers grew numb around the glass of Pimm’s. But it was rather summer-like standing in a group on the balcony, watching the human spectacle of a dying May day, the sounds of urban night growing louder as tangerine sunset passed into orange streetlight.

I got tempted to wear shorts to work. Then I realised I wasn’t in Bermuda any more. I had no long socks to pull up to my knees in case the weather changed its tune. I imagined myself on the Finchley Road with hail stones the size of golf balls battering my naked calves as I ran for the 31 bus.

Now the weather’s more ambivalent. It’s the sort that characterised the 2004 summer, slightly chilly, grey and ill-at-ease. Stoically, London accepts it. But the hunger Londoners have for the baking sun has been stoked out of hibernation.

We stand ready to don tank tops and three-quarter length jeans at a moment’s notice. Let’s hope it’s not too long before London and sub-tropical bliss meet again.