A wild romp through the Sahara to save the world

It may not be Raiders of the Lost Ark, but Sahara, the screen adaptation of Clive Cussler's sprawling African adventure yarn, is a movie that keeps half a brain in its head while adopting the amused, cocky smirk of the Indiana Jones romps.

A fusion of old and new, it both is and isn't a delirious escape into adventure-serial heaven. Amid its madcap derring-do, the movie inserts clear, simple alarms about environmental protection, African despotism, global interdependence and bureaucratic cowardice.

The movie's dressing up of an old-fashioned adventure fantasy in contemporary threads is an experiment in juxtaposition that gains in assurance as the film bounds along. Given the grim news these days of African nations ground to dust under the boots of ruthless, feuding warlords, the film's caricatured vision of greed, oppression and misery in parts of Africa doesn't feel entirely like a caricature. Ultimate real-life horror, after all, is a grotesque cartoon.

The two-hour-plus film has the timing and stamina of a marathon runner. As Sahara careers between swashbuckling silliness and semi-serious comment, it builds up reserves of energy and good will that pay off when it bursts into its final sprint, a rootin'-tootin' 21-gun finale as satisfying as it is preposterous.

Sahara is the sure-handed directorial debut of Breck Eisner (son of Michael), who maintains strict control of an oversize story (the novel runs to 700 pages) whose multiple plots could easily have splintered into an incomprehensible tangle. The screenplay, credited to four writers, allows you to follow the multinational crew of treasure hunters, warlords, tribal chiefs and officials from various global agencies as they gallivant across Western Africa (the movie was filmed mostly in Morocco) without losing your way.

What starts out as a treasure hunt turns into a desperate attempt to forestall an environmental catastrophe one character calls "the Chernobyl of the Atlantic." Keeping things clear in a movie this capacious isn't easy, as evidenced by the increasing numbers of Hollywood tent poles clad in epic drag that don't make even a token bid for coherence (think only of the Mummy films) and are content to splat themselves onto the screen like reeking pools of regurgitated junk food.

Sahara may be the ultimate test of Matthew McConaughey's still-unrealized potential to enter Hollywood's magic circle. If this movie can't propel the 35-year-old Texan into Harrison Ford's US$20 million trekking boots, nothing can, and the longstanding heir apparent will never be king.

His character, Dirk Pitt, an unflappably game treasure hunter obsessed with finding a Confederate ironclad ship that disappeared at the end of the Civil War and may have landed in Africa, epitomizes Rhett Butler Lite. Twinkling and sinewy, his rakish insolence accented by a mustache, McConaughey's Dirk is the Flower of Southern Manhood, Texan-style, a fearless all-American pirate with a keen sense of humor and a social conscience.

While watching Sahara, I apprec-iated his charming performance, but I also kept asking myself which particular quality on the checklist of essential superstar attributes might explain his inability so far to crack the magic circle and decided it must be his voice. His vocal twang may be a little too high and sharp and inflected with a Woody Harrelson whine for him to convey the unassailable gravitas of a mythic action hero.