As part of the deal made between Spielberg and George Lucas when formulating the basic ideas for Raiders of the Lost Ark, Spielberg reluctantly agreed to direct two more films of a planned series. Lucas claimed to already have the stories in mind, which was a lie, resulting in a hastily crafted plot to the first follow-up. Add to that the fact that both men came into their sequel-turned-prequel in the midst of tough break-ups, and as such, with more cynical attitudes, and it makes sense why Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is very rough around the edges -to put it mildly.
Definitely the black sheep of the Indiana Jones series before Kingdom of the Crystal Skull came along, this film pushes the corny overtones established in Raiders to dark places and adds a lot of just general weirdness. If E.T. was the ideal vessel of Spielberg’s sense of innocence and wonder, Temple of Doom is the apotheosis of his grimness and demons.
Set in 1935, Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford) escapes a deadly confrontation with a crime lord in Shanghai to be dropped into north India, where a fearful village recruits him to retrieve their sacred stone and children from a Thuggee cult. Accompanied by an American singer Willie Scott (Kate Capshaw) and a diminutive sidekick Short Round (Jonathan Ke Quan), he embarks on a dangerous quest into a world of horrific ritualism and harrowing consequences.
Let’s begin with one of the most obvious problems of Temple of Doom: the racism, and near complete misunderstanding of Indian culture and Hindu religion. While the peasant folk whom Indy is helping are mostly inoffensive, save for their gentility and inability to find their children themselves, in the second half of the film we’re shown a Maharaja feast of unbelievably disturbing dishes: monkey brains, eyeballs in soup, what appears to be snake blood, etc. This is meant narratively to put the protagonists in a place of unease, but the consequence is that it characterizes Indian food as grotesque and savage. Following this is a perversion of Hinduism which insinuates Kali is essentially equivalent to the Christian devil (she’s not -even Hades is a closer comparison), and flat out makes up the Sankara Stones where the Ark of the Covenant was a real mythic artefact. Human sacrifice and voodoo mysticism are ideas borrowed from Ancient Aztec rituals –to depict them as representative of a sect of Indian Hinduism is grossly irresponsible. Not only factually inaccurate, offensive, and stereotypical, this is all mean-spirited, and I don’t know why Spielberg and Lucas couldn’t see that when even their screenwriters foresaw a backlash. Was this revenge against Satyajit Ray for accusing Spielberg of plagiarizing E.T.?
And attached to this of course, is our old friend, the white saviour motif. The villagers believe Indy was sent by Shiva to retrieve their stone and save their children not because he’s an adventurer or archaeologist (the movie largely forgets this part of his job), but because he’s white. At least that’s how it comes across. And he does just that. He even “generously” allows them to keep the relic he rescued, rather than put it in a museum which is portrayed as the natural course of action. The harmful effects of this cliché I don’t have to spell out, but it does work against this movie’s goodwill, if it even has any.
I don’t feel that is a criticism as much as an observation. The movie doesn’t seem to want its audience to have much fun with it. There are attempts at humour, and fast-paced action scenes as required, but there’s also a grim tone pervasent, and Temple of Doom takes itself more seriously than Raiders ever did. The stakes are incredibly heavy, the volume of cheesiness is toned down, and Indy’s just generally more serious –more like a James Bond than the Indiana Jones we loved in Raiders. However, this does mirror his trajectory in the movie. Take the scene where he’s tortured and brainwashed, which is unnecessarily intense and almost masochistic. You forget you’re supposed to be watching a thrilling action-adventure, when what’s on the screen is The Passion of the Jones.
The violence in this movie, though no more graphic than Raiders, is much more gruesome by implication, again looking to the suffering Indy endures. But most famously is when Mola Ram (Amrish Puri), the under-developed villain of the picture, pulls a mans’ beating heart from his chest. This combined with such things as flagellation, child slavery, and a man accidentally hanging himself makes for some pretty shocking content to not be broken up by levity. It’s well known that Temple of Doom was the movie that gave birth to the PG-13 rating because of this, and given how much that rating’s been abused in the decades since, it’s another unfortunate association this movie has.
And then there’s Kate Capshaw, who I feel so sorry had to be connected to this character for the duration of her career. The problem with Willie is not her fault at all, and in fact begins with one of Lucas’ dumbest notions for the series, that like the Bond films, there should be a different love interest on each adventure. Convincing Spielberg of this not only prevented Karen Allen from returning but also retroactively devalued the romance between Indy and Marion.
Willie, unlike Marion, is badly written and severely insufferable. Capshaw herself criticized the character, calling her “not much more than a dumb screaming blonde,” and that’s pretty accurate. All she does is scream, moan and insult the Indians and their environment. And this movie really has balls to be calling her culturally insensitive. Because she’s so off-putting, the romance with Indy is pretty much just lust, and in one scene where she’s attempting to seduce him, she’s relegated to a sex object comparable to a bare-breasted statue in the wall (which Indy “hilariously” fondles). The thing is, there is a way for a companion out of their depth to work, but Spielberg and Lucas aren’t really interested in developing her. The result is a relentlessly irritating character whose only positive attribute is that the actress met her future husband in the director on set. Short Round isn’t a whole lot better -a wacky sidekick kid for the sake of being a wacky sidekick kid, directed to shout every line.
From all of this, it may sound like Temple of Doom is an awful movie, and while it certainly isn’t good, it’s not without redeeming moments. Despite the opening sequence in Shanghai feeling explicitly nothing like Indiana Jones, it’s got some well-executed, corny ideas; like the poison accident, the gong as a shield, and even the death of a sidekick played by David Yip, who’d apparently been on “many adventures” with Indy that we’ll never see. The film is still plenty creative. The production design is just as elaborate and interesting as its predecessor, and the mine cart chase –originally conceived as a set-piece for Raiders, is quite fun. And a lot of the enjoyment to derive from Temple of Doom is ironic: the ludicrous mountain rafting scene, or Ford’s mugging of “we are going to die” when trapped in the wall, which is a big laugh every time.
The climax on the rope bridge is the best part of the movie. From the build-up, to Indy slicing the rope, and Willie’s only perfect delivery upon realizing what he’s about to do; to the fight with Mola Ram on the dangling bridge, it’s all really well-shot and perfectly thrilling. This part of the movie revels in the right kind of pulp cheesiness too; like how Indy’s aggressors cornering him get further away with each long shot, or the arrows from the cultists somehow all missing Indy when he’s trapped against the rock, or the crocodiles eating shreds of clothing, or of course the British Army led by Philip Stone coming to the rescue with such a proud colonialist fervour about it it might as well have come from an H. Rider Haggard or Rudyard Kipling book.
Temple of Doom is frustrating, but also fascinating. Spielberg was never entirely on board with it, and screenwriters Willard Huyck and Gloria Katz attribute its rushed development to a desperation to keep Spielberg attached. And this does show. But Spielberg didn’t half-ass it; none of the movies’ biggest problems are with its production. Because of this, the movie exists in the realm of guilty pleasure, intolerable and discomforting a lot of the time, but too inventive, bizarrely unique, and engrossed with itself to be dismissed outright. For better or worse, it encapsulated Spielberg’s mood at that point in his life; and it was really a good thing he decided to step away from franchises and blockbusters afterwards, to begin the Oscar-baiting phase of his career.
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