Indy Fatigable

By RICHARD CORLISS/CANNES

By the thousands, journalists at the Cannes Film Festival lined up two hours in advance in eager expectation of that special moment: when they would be the first people in the world to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, fourth in the adventure series that began with Raiders of the Lost Ark in 1981 and the first since The Last Crusade 19 years ago. Inside the Grand Palais, the crowd's mood was more World Cup Final than movie premiere. Some revelers trumpeted the first four notes of John Williams' signature theme, and others responded with the next three. The lights dimmed, the Lucasfilm Ltd. logo materialized, and the audience erupted in cheers.

Two hours later, it was a lot quieter.

Anticipation is often the best part of romance, including the form of ardor known as movie love. The dictum applies with its greatest, most poignant force when a sequel to a beloved series is finally unveiled; recall the shrugs and recriminations at the arrival of The Phantom Menace. The Indy franchise never reached the heights of Skywalker mania. It was just (just!) a trilogy that both tapped the innocent vigor of old B-movie serials and turned them into sophisticated thrill machines. Raiders and its progeny were fun without being facetious; they moved with the speed and power of an Indy right hook, relentlessly piling one cool action trope on another. And at their heart was a hero who wore his machismo lightly, whether he was ending a face-off with a saber-wielding villain by shooting him or coping with his mortal fear of snakes.

O.K., back in the '80s, everybody was younger, except for today's prime movie audience, which hadn't yet been born. Trying to catch the old lightning is a daunting challenge for the series' producer, George Lucas (now 64); its director, Steven Spielberg (61); and its star, Harrison Ford (65). They acknowledge as much in an early Crystal Skull scene, when Indy and his sometime pal Mac (Ray Winstone) come up against a convoy of tough Russians. "This ain't gonna be easy," Mac says, and Indy replies, "Not as easy as it used to be."

We're in Nevada in 1957, a time of rock 'n' roll (Elvis' Hound Dog is on the sound track), greasy-haired juvenile delinquents (including the main new character, Shia LaBeouf's Mutt Williams), commie-phobia (and why not? The Soviets have just penetrated a U.S. military base), fear of the Bomb (hmm, what's that mushroom cloud on the horizon?) and mass sightings of UFOS (coming soon to an archaeological dig near you).

The Red Menace first. Khrushchev banging his shoe at the U.N. is fine for newsreels, but Spielberg and Lucas (and screenwriters David Koepp and Jeff Nathanson) have something sexier in mind: Irina Spalko, played by Cate Blanchett with a feline purr and the fabulous posture of military-movie villains. Irina wants to cloud American minds by getting access to a secret technology that is concealed either in the Area 51 warehouse where Crystal Skull begins or in the remotest jungle mountains of Peru during the film's last hour. "We will change you, Mr. Jones," she proclaims. "We will turn you into us."

Practical Magic

In a movie intended as a class reunion, Indy has to bring a wife-equivalent: his gal pal from Raiders, Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen, still brandishing that mile-wide smile). Her son Mutt is a young Indy manque; he has discipline issues, but you can be sure he'll work them out, since he's the designated hero of whatever further sequels Lucas has in mind. LaBeouf, an intelligent actor without an ounce of charisma, will be hard put to replace the original, iconic Indy. Ford looks just fine, his chest tanned to a rich, Corinthian leather; he is still lithe on his feet and can deliver a wisecrack as sharp as a whip crack. Indeed, he seems sprightlier than much of the movie. There are scenes that play like stretching exercises at the retirement home; there are garrulous passages while Indy translates runic inscriptions; even the title seems a few words too long. It takes about an hour for Crystal Skull to deliver on its promise of chic, robust, familiar entertainment.

Indy films usually begin with a bang and end in scenes of gross-out mysticism, but the coolest thing here comes in the middle: a high-speed two-vehicle battle between Indy's team and Irina's goons that's up there with the Raiders Jeep sequence; it's certainly more complex and audacious in its engineering of physical action. In his press conference at Cannes, Spielberg said, "I believe in practical magic, not digital magic," and in "real stunts with real people." These stunts are real good.

Too often, though, the project is lulling and mechanical. Lucas may want the series to extend to Indy 500, but this time the filmmakers are less like a crack racing team and more like a '50s pop group, the Platters or the Drifters, reconvened to sing their hits at a pbs oldies concert. They mime their classic choreography--and may cheat on the high notes--but it's a treat just to see them trying. That's the instant movie nostalgia of Crystal Skull. It's got the old airs and familiar faces and works up a commendable sweat. All that's missing is the magic.