<i>Indiana Jones</i> and the Museums of Imperialism

The entertainment quality in the three Indiana Jones films is unsurpassed in originality, pace and imitators. The three action-adventure films that make up the Indiana Jones trilogy are among the most popular and profitable films ever made. On one level, they can be admired as 1980s Hollywood studio filmmaking at its peak. Whether technically defined or artistically imagined, they demonstrate that despite much mediocrity, Hollywood can still produce outstanding entertainment. The talents of the director, Steven Speilberg, and the producer, George Lucas, obviously contribute to this success. Yet once one moves away from the action and pace, the appeal factor of these three films gets blurred as a consequence of some rather disturbing elements. Critically speaking, the films mediate versions of reality that are not just politically incorrect, but rather alarmingly, may be interpreted as racist. These include the perpetuation of negative attributes about ethnicity, and an indulgement in stereotypical caricatures. As well, the Indiana Jones trilogy suggests values and belief systems which glorify a dated version of conquest. Movies are peculiarly well suited to translate social values into felt needs that seem as authentic as the memories of childhood. Although we may not always agree with them, or even recognize that they are courting our consent, we tend to accept the frames of references that they supply. They speak our language, and we tend to learn to speak theirs. (Biskind 2) Biskind extends this idea further by commenting on a sentiment about the mass media in general, one that has been echoed by others. He suggests that, “if we add up all that movies say or show,” what results is a totalizing “world-view” or “ideology” that is explicit in a non-obvious way (Biskind 2). So in addition to the excitement generated by the Indiana Jones films, these adventure fantasies possess a complex structure that reveals numerous messages. The thrilling nature of the films usually masks complexities and problems beneath the surface. Three interrelated themes are discussed in this essay with regard to the Indiana Jones films. First, there is the portrayal of “native cultures”; second, there is the position of the hero as archaeologist/adventurer; and, related to these, is the idea of this adventurer as a pirate for museums. In essence, the quest for valuable objects required to fill a museum may serve as a metaphor for imperial exploits. The position of the museum in all three films is relegated to minor, background status in the text, yet it is the museum's acquisitions' policy that motivates most of the action. The creation of the character Indiana Jones, was derived from producer George Lucas's interest in and fascination with the cliff-hanger movie serials of the 1930s and ‘40s, which he watched on television in the ‘50s. (Kael 132) Before these jungle adventures became Saturday afternoon serials, they were preceded by travel exploits, white hunter stories and Tarzan novels which were written during an era of imperialist expansion and often from a racist point of view. Subsequently, in creating a modem version, Lucas resuscitated a known adventure tradition, complete with the same motifs and stereotypes. From the jungles of South America, to the deserts of the Middle East, to the mountains of India, to exotic temples, the Anglo-American maverick roams, fights and pillages. Regardless if he is portrayed as saviour or hero, especially to child-like, sycophantic natives, only Indiana dares to do what they are afraid to attempt. Indiana has no fear of their religions, myths and taboos. He shrugs off superstitions, and has no fears whatsoever, except from nature's offerings. The “Other” inevitably falls into a familiar role: either a trustworthy innocent willing to help whatever the cost, or a truly evil creation, preying off age-old superstitions. Like Tarzan, Indiana Jones masters the “savage environment”, is deified, and comes to stand as a symbol for white supremacy and benevolence (Newsinger 60-62). The cultures he invades are represented, objectified, by people who are little more than entertaining or exotic scenery, usually expanded versions of stock figures of ages gone by. There is the “howling savage”, the faithful servant, the sinister woman, the superstitious aide, the duplicitous former comrade and of course, the ever-present porters, lugging the trappings of Western civilization into the most inaccessible geography imaginable. The villagers of The Temple of Doom; Sallah, the Egyptian front-man in Raiders; and the porters and soldiers in The Last Crusade are all examples of the richness of the cinematic stereotype. The negative portrait of “natives” is usually illustrative of the fact that they need the white man's help. Western know-how and expertise are the keys to modernization and tools to help them accomplish their goals. Historian Michael Adas has written that “as evidence of their material achievement multiplied and pervaded throughout all aspects of life in industrializing societies, Europeans, and (increasingly) Americans grew more conscious of the uniqueness, and they believed, the superiority of Western civilization”. The “key attributes” that set Europe and America apart were science, technology and industry. As a barometer, innovations became yardsticks with which to measure, classify and rate superiority. Adas contends that this system of judgement became the fundamental dichotomy between industrial and preindustrial societies and also served as tools of exploitation which included the sending in of troops faster by trains, intensive mining and its subsequent dislocation factor, both of which hastened the oppression (and enslavement) of the native population (Adas 143-144). The portrayal of native peoples as bumblers, or incompetents, makes it easier for the audience to believe that a “white knight”, an heroic westerner, is viable as a saviour even in the most outlandish circumstance. Whether it is Yankee ingenuity or Saxon pride, the North American audience knows that Indy will make it through the tortuous course of obstacles where so many natives lay strewn about. Only Indy can bring back the holy stones to the village, thus securing the children's freedom. In The Last Crusade, it is Anglo-Americana that is teamed together to find the Holy Grail, in a show of British grit and American manliness. Combined with a potent narrative, the technology of cinema and television aids in forming our perception of the “Other” in the Indiana Jones trilogy. As western viewers, the audience is viewing the situation presented from a position of distance and privilege. This perspectives affects one's sense of history. According to Robert Stem and Louise Spence, “The magic carpet provided by these apparatuses [TV, film] flies us around the globe and makes us, by virtue of our strategic position, its audio-visual masters. It produces us as subjects, transforming us into armchair conquistadors, affirming our sense of power while making the inhabitants of the third world objects of spectacle for the first world's voyeuristic gaze” (Stem and Spence 4). Since the inception of movies, the third world, minorities and native cultures have often been portrayed in a negative fashion. As a consequence, the perception of the spectator is particularly affected. From his or her unique vantage point, a particular mediated version of history is formed. Tom Englehardt's approach to this concept has recognized both the intent of the message and the result. He writes that the viewer “is forced behind the barrel of a repeating rifle and it is from that position, through its gun sights, that he receives a picture history of Western colonialism and imperialism.” In this “cinematic structure”, the opportunity for “sympathy ceases to exist” (Englehardt 481). The potency of this accumulated perspective affects not only viewers but also producers. For even when a positive portrait of a citizen from the third world is attempted in mainstream film, this individual in framed in a loosely veiled stereotype. More often than not, he or she is likely to be a “devoted subordinate” who “finds fulfilment in selfless service to, or loving association with, a white superior” (Parenti 17). The indigenous population served as nameless bearers to lug the imported paraphernalia of civilization along jungle trails… When the story needed to be invigorated by vignettes of incidental action, one or another of the expendable porters would topple off a cliff or be eaten by crocodiles. (Hart, in Parenti 19) Just think back and try to recall how many movies have employed this scenario. The Temple of Doom duplicates it exactly – in one escape scene, hundreds of natves fall off of the bridge into the mouths of crocodiles. It is only the intrepid archaeologist who makes it through. He uses the valuable item to buy time. In The Temple of Doom, he does return the holy stones, in Raiders, the Ark gets processed by the government, and in The Last Crusade, the chalice is left “where it belongs”. But what about all the secondary objects that provide the impetus for the chases and thrills? Using one as an example, according to Indy in The Last Crusade, “It belongs in a Museum!” He shouts this at another fortune hunter, for the two have been competing for the same relic. Indiana's actions are suggestive of benevolence and legitimacy, while his adversary's motives are downright evil and guided solely by profit. Among the areas to explore regarding this paradox is the legitimization of pillage. It is okay, according to this logic, for some valuable items to be stolen, regardless of their meaning, and put into an American or British Museum. Imperial representatives, acting as missionaries, soldiers, administrators or explorers, fill cases of British, American and Canadian museums with artifacts and objects, large and small, acquired during their stays in various countries. Between the second half of the nineteenth century and well into the middle of the twentieth century, museums were only too glad to receive these objects (Riegal 87-90). The process of appropriation was well under way by the 1870s and by the 1930s, when the Jones films are set, it reached manic proportions in all arenas of culture. Once captured, the object is controlled under the confines of glass, where it can be admired by all who come to see (Ames 3-4). Putting the trappings of another culture on display leads to a process termed “museumification”, which subjects that culture to western control (Ames 23). There is no doubt that nineteenth century and twentieth century museums made major contributions to the education of citizens, but they also served to reinforce both racism and a hierarchy of social order. Knowingly or not, the purveyor of these trinkets is the roaming archaeologist-as-hero. Often at the forefront of Western expansion, the archaeologist (or anthropologist) is an adventurer in the “classic” sense. He or she sees what we do not and writes about it is a way that makes it seem exotic (Fjellman 405). Today, after independence, many formerly enslaved or colonized peoples have challenged the assumptions and findings of archaeologists digging in their ancestral lands. The interpretation and publicizing of new histories, often contradictory, are attempts to redress centuries of wrong. Yet the archaeologist-as-hero remains an impressive figure, especially as brought to life by Harrison Ford. Dashing, intelligent, and noble, it is hard to imagine him as other than than a brave, enthusiastic mischief maker. Edward Said's concept of Orientalism is applicable here. In defining Orientalism as a “western style for dominating, restructuring and having authority over the Orient”, this allows the West to “manage and produce the Orient politically, sociologically, militarily, ideologically, scientifically, and imaginatively” (Said 3). The archaeologist or anthropologist “comes up against the Orient as a European or an American first, and an individual second” (Said 11). As such, there is a history of cultural hegemony in place aided and institutionalized since ancient times. This historical and cultural “baggage”, a product that gives rise to assumptions of superiority, is dependent on “Oriental precedent, some previous Knowledge of the Orient,” on which the archaeologist or anthropologist relies (Said 20). The power that is acquired over time is concomitant with the rendering of the distant into the familiar. The threatening “Otherness” becomes a stereotype (Said 21). Said feels that the mass media have taken academic, scholarly and literary representations and have honed and intensified the standardization. What results — this power — is a picture of individuals who are in every way opposite to the “clarity, directness and nobility of the Anglo-Saxon Race” (Said 39). This is particularly pronounced in The Last Cnisade, by casting Sean Connery in the role of Indiana's father, and playing up the mythological antecedents of the story of the Holy Grail. The settings of the Indiana Jones films are often places that were former colonies, or countries that were once rule by Western powers. The time-frame in which the films are set is the 1930s, the days when the final traces of the British Empire were flickering and a new power, the United States, was starting to test its strength in a forceful manner. To give the films the most authentic flavour, vestiges of imperialism and touches of colonialism are sprinkled throughout all three films. The hero is given power through his position in the service of the United States. The explorer as archaeologist acts as an agent at the behest of an imperial power. In Raiders, Indiana, is “recruited by the American Government, circa 1936, to foil, singlehanded, a huge German team that is on the brink of rediscovering the long-lost Ark of the Covenant.” (Schickel 64). Everything Indiana the scientist/government representative does is coloured by the political leanings and military ideas of his government. 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