"It's not the years, honey - it's the mileage."

Rating: 10/10 (13 November 2016)

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There are countless instantly recognizable movie themes - many of them written by John Williams. But there are none quite as instantly transformative as those two sets of ascending four notes on the horn that instantly spell 'Indiana Jones.' Four notes, and we're skidding under a closing temple door, a juggernaut boulder crashing behind us, dodging blow darts, pausing only to retrieve our hat. Four notes, and we unconsciously stop to absently brush the spiders and cobwebs off us, so entranced are we by the thrill of our archaeological treasure hunt. Four notes, and we're off to the movies - Raiders of the Lost Ark alongside Doctor Jones. And there's nowhere we'd rather be.
You could rattle off Raiders' iconic moments for the duration of its run time ("throw me the whip!"/"Throw me the idol!"; 'Gun to a sword fight'; "Why'd it have to be snakes?!"), and still fall short of its iconic magic. But why Indy? Granted, the former Indiana Smith, the man all but christened James Bond's father (see part III for a cheeky wink at that) by his own 'parents,' the indomitable Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, is a fun character. He's a perfect foil to subject to all the action, intrigue, globetrotting, and treasure hunting joys that proliferated the matinée adventure serials of his pappy's boyhoods. And we have him (and them) for forever cementing archaeology as THE COOLEST profession shy of a firefighting superhero astronaut in the eyes of generations of youth.
Spielberg clearly knew they were onto something here, and reciprocates by being on the top of his game, delivering the quintessence of a robust, brawny, populist cinematic adventure as only he can. His opening act - again, a 007 homage - is immediately unforgettable, introducing the titular hero as a dramatic silhouette, easily outmaneuvering his cowering guide (the exquisitely weaselly Alfred Molina) as he's beset by a franchise's worth of booby traps. It's a slow build from there, toeing the line of leisurely, despite an explosive bar brawl in the Himalayas (including another unforgettable introduction for Karen Allen's tough-as-nails, exceptionally charismatic Marion Ravenwood) to tide us by. But soon enough, we're thrust into the thick of snake-filled antiquity ruins, besieged by Nazis (who else?), and from then on, the film is unstoppable. Crisp editing, flawlessly dusty cinematography, and the magnificently grandiose archaeological sets ignite the film with a rambunctious, sand-etched enthusiasm, while the action sequences bristle with breathtaking intensity (remember to return from the edge of your seat after watching Jones sucked under a moving truck, or ducking under a plane propeller mid-fistfight) coupled with disarming matinée silliness. And that climax - probably the most literal 'Deus Ex Machina' in cinema history? 'Exhilarating' is the understatement of a thousand lifetimes.
But the real joy, the real 'je ne sais quoi' of Raiders of the Lost Ark lives in its tiny, throwaway moments - many buoyed by Spielberg's savagely cheeky sense of humour, or flair for unexpectedly iconic character beats. "Love You" on a student's eyelids flustering Jones mid-lesson. Indiana interrupting Marcus Brody (the delightful Denholm Elliot)'s line - clearly unscripted - because he's so excited about archaeology. John Rhys-Davies' bombastically lovable Sallah bursting into Gilbert and Sullivan because he's "so pleased you're not dead!" Arch-rival Belloq (perfectly preening yet oddly dignified Paul Freeman) bursting into laughter when drunkenly threatened by a knife. Insidious, scar-handed Nazi stooge Toht (unforgettably grotesque Ronald Lacey) giggling nervously when the Ark of the Covenant is revealed to be full of dust. Indiana falling asleep amidst what should be a passionate love scene. And, of course, the unforgettable 'brought a gun to a sword fight' standoff. These are what elevate the movie from good, spirited fun to the level of unforgettable movie magic. These are what make it truly special.
Still, there are two indisputable MVPs for Raiders' rampant success: John Williams, and Harrison Ford. Never before have music and actor fused into such an unforgettable driving force of a character - a hero who really sweats, bleeds, grunts, cusses, undercuts his triumphant introduction by whining about snakes, and cements his place at the forefront of thirty-five years worth of audiences' hearts. It's easy to overlook Ford's razor-sharp comedic timing amidst his brimming, crusty charisma, but watch for his exasperated, exhausted grimaces when confronted by a superfluously sword-swinging adversary, fumbling aboard a descending Nazi submarine, or challenged to bareknuckle boxing mid-plane hijack, and the film reaches a level of sublime, almost peerless character comedy. It's this crystalline grounding of impossible feats within the characterization of a man who risks his life for museum artifacts that sells the inherent ridiculousness of Indiana Jones, taking him from self-parody to genre-defining, and spawning innumerable, inherently inferior knock-offs. Freeman's Belloq's villainous jeers prove prophetic: Jones is now an unshakable, invaluable part of modern cultural history. And he doesn't even have to be quarantined to a museum.
There's an argument to be made that The Last Crusade peps up the already nearly airtight formula with more comedy and action for your buck, and Temple of Doom, while clumsy and flawed, delves into some intriguingly grim terrain (what's a Crystal Skull? You must've been dreaming). Still, the word classic isn't used lightly, and Raiders of the Lost Ark remains just that: a game-changing, fundamental force in escapist cinematic perfection. So forget about your pesky real world problems! Because you are at the MOVIES, with Spielberg, Johnny Williams, and the perennially grimacing Indiana Jones. And here, everything is going to be okay. You're in good hands. Whose good hands? Top. Men.
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-10/10