Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is an enduring testament to why most sequels should never exist. After Raiders of the Lost Ark, this is a substantial letdown. From start to finish, it’s louder, uglier, and more indulgent than the film the preceded it. Even worse, the filmmakers aim the humor and action for kids, but also load the story with intensely unsettling subject matter. This is the opposite of a family film.
Even though I’ve bashed Doom as a sequel, a lot of people may not realize it’s actually a prequel. For reasons that pass understanding, director Steven Spielberg and producer George Lucas (who also gets story credit) choose to set this migraine-in-motion one full year before Raiders.
We open in Shanghai, in 1935. Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford), the intrepid archaeologist, runs afoul of some local bad guys. He attempts to broker a trade, swapping the remains of a Lin-dynasty emperor for a precious diamond. The deal goes bad, and Dr. Jones barely escapes with his life. Along this daring exodus, we meet Indy’s two companions for this film: Short Round (Ke Huy Quan) is a plucky, preteen sidekick. Willie (Kate Capshaw) is a spoiled, shrieking lounge singer would serve as a romantic foil, much in the same way that Jar Jar Binks will later provide comic relief for The Phantom Menace.
Fate plops Indy and company into a remote Indian village. The locals have a horror story waiting for him: In recent months, their crops have died, their rivers have dried, and their livestock has turned to dust. Even worse, all of their children have been abducted. The village elders believe that the calamity began when their sacred stone was stolen by a nearby maharaja. Indy comes to suspect that the maharaja and his followers have fallen under the sway of the mysterious Thuggee cult. His investigation will take him into the deadly Temple of Doom.
The resulting film is somehow the best of times and blurst of times. On one hand, Spielberg and Lucas give us a magnificent work of cinema. No expense gets spare in this eye-popping assemblage of ornate sets and jaw-dropping special effects. The final third of Doom plays like a furious ride at Six Flags.
On the other hand, this movie bubbles over with curious storytelling choices. Clearly, Spielberg and Lucas wanted a dark sequel, a la Empire Strikes Back. The only problem? They don’t know when to stop tinting the windows. That means Short Round’s cute one-liners live next to scenes of starving villagers and child enslavement. Or, a bad guy (Amrish Puri) who rips out a victim’s beating heart before lowering him into a pit of bubbling lava. In a fascinating turn, Doom‘s gruesomeness provoked the MPAA to create the PG-13 rating. I think a strong case could be made to upgrade that to R.
All that unevenness also applies to the performances. Ford slips into his iconic role like a pair of dusty old khakis. If there’s any joy in this film at all, it lies in watching an actor play his best role. Ford also has a nice interplay with Quan that goes beyond the cutesy back-and-forth. There’s real affection between them.
The critics dragged Capshaw over the coals for her performance as Willie, but I would argue she’s only playing the role as written. For some reason, the filmmakers tried to completely deviate from Karen Allen’s love interest in Raiders. The result is a loud, whining tenderfoot who exists to fall into danger and scream for help. Blame Capshaw if you want, but I think Audrey Hepburn would’ve struggled to make this role likable.
Taken in all, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is more than a disappointing sequel. It’s a dispiriting cinematic experience. In terms of entertainment value, Doom falls into a no man’s land: It’s way too grim and disturbing for children, and too loud and relentless for adults. Perhaps the best thing about it is that the filmmakers had extra motivation to deliver with the next installment.
118 min. PG. Disney+.
