It’s a tribute to the creators’ self-control that Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull does not once spout the phrase, “I’m gettin’ too old for this.” The film acknowledges Harrison Ford’s aging problem up front with a few adorable displays of straining, missing marks, huffing and puffing and sweating and bleeding. Older viewers may recall that’s not too different from the Indy of yesteryear. In the first three films, Indy was an imperfect hero, but part of his appeal was how he made the best of even the worst circumstances. This time around, his “circumstances” are his own intrepid band of adventurers, providing straight men for his punchlines and additional coverage for his action needs.

Karen Allen returns as ex-flame Marion — initially a damsel in distress yet again, though in a few key scenes showing signs of maturity beyond the shrieking liability she once was. She’s not immune to sudden bouts of helplessness, but she recovers quickly. I pray it’s not sexist to note that her deadliest, most assured moments all transpire when she’s driving. Road rage becomes her.

By her side is Academy Award nominee John Hurt, reduced to playing the role of Sean Connery’s notebook. As Indy’s fellow scholar Professor Harold Oxley, his recent achievements have left him incapable of coherent speech, save for the occasional bout of Tourette’s punctuating reams of crossword clues, each of which unlocks another stroke of plot movement. Solve his haiku, win the scene.

Making the entire situation possible is Shia LeBeouf as “Mutt” Williams, a high school dropout who’s skilled with blades, dressed like The Wild One, and obsessed with combing. Mutt is the reckless rebel who takes the bold steps and drags others into the fray, though he might have thought twice had he known he’s not the only character in the film named after a dog.

Tagging along superfluously like a nameless Little Rascal is British tough guy Ray Winstone (most recently an underappreciated player in The Departed), stuck playing another old acquaintance whose motives are questionable, whose usefulness is rarely demonstrated, and whose last defense is to scream Indy’s name more loudly than Marion does. He’s a spare obstruction kept on hand to use whenever the movie runs low on obstructions.

Even the props provide moral support. Professor Jones’ desk holds photos of more than one familiar old face. The film seems especially reverent of the late Denholm Elliot, who is represented no less than three times throughout the film — by a photo, by a statue, and by Academy Award Winner Jim Broadbent, the perfect choice to Ouija-board all the traits of Marcus Brody into a different yet identical character. His two short scenes beg the question of why he isn’t simply named Marvin Brody and declared a long-lost cousin.

All your other favorite characters are back in more direct form: evil military goons! Creepy-crawly tunnel dwellers! One (1) snake! Fawning college students! The red-arrow express! A musclebound juggernaut who eats punches for breakfast! Monkeys!

In the center of it all, vying for attention in his own film is the world’s wildest archaeologist, old whatshisname, the Hat Guy. Make no mistake; the hat steals more scenes than some of the actors. If only the same could be said for Ford — early on, his charming expressions of disdain and discomfort are in full effect. His subtleties, the consequences of aging, and the witty dialogue are a welcome sign that we’re home again in Raider-land. All of those components are then steamrolled with brute efficiency by the necessary requirements of the modern-day summer action blockbuster extravaganza.

The first major action sequence hints at the eventual MacGuffin, but keeps its cards smartly hidden at first. Too much time is instead spent bombarding the audience with an important message; YOU’RE IN THE FIFTIES NOW! Easy references to Dwight Eisenhower, Howdy Doody, Area 51, McCarthyism, suburban life, and atomic bombs are run through like a checklist for viewers who thought the opening caption “NEVADA 1957″ was just kidding.

Indy’s grand entrance is made, humbly enough, from within a car trunk. He’s held captive by Commies, substituting for the Nazis in this series as they did with most pop culture of the time. Their leader is Academy Award Winner Cate Blanchett as Irina Spalko, a cold-blooded Russkie wearing the hair and near-albino skin tone of Data’s daughter Lal, adding another new accent to her Streepian repertoire. Her interest in psychic warfare has drawn her to coerce Indy to find her a specific box within a specific warehouse, already seen in several specific trailers. (No, she is not seeking the Ark. Why would Commies seek proof of God’s power?) Whips are cracked, cars are crashed, stuff is blowed up but good…some of it much too good.

In the grand tradition of the original trilogy, the movie then slams the brakes and abruptly switches gears for long stretches of university life, plot exposition, and character interaction. Some of it isn’t pleasant — the “reality” of the 1950s sees Our Hero forced to endure interrogation by government agents, one of whom is played by a face familiar to Scrubs fans that jolted me right out of the movie for a few minutes and made it hard to take the scene — or any broad attempts at commentary on 21st-century government agendas — seriously.

Eventually Mutt arrives on campus to drag the good Dr. Jones into yet another fine mess involving his missing father figure, all the disparate cast members, the legend of El Dorado, and at least one crystal skull. From there, the plot migrates to South America, where it roosts comfortably between chases and arguments and loads of that Indiana Jones puzzle-solving savoir-faire that doubtlessly influenced the series’ de facto kiddie version, The Goonies. The longest, most breathtaking set piece is a high-octane car chase through the Amazon Forest that includes plenty of old-fashioned leap-frog, an impressive inter-vehicle swordfight, edgy cliffside peril, and some very angry animals. That stretch of movie is Spielberg at his standard exemplary level of showmanship.

In order to keep your head in the film for the rest of its running time, though, you have to focus on the series’ debt to the old pulp serials that inspired it, and remain aware that they sometimes held little regard for what modern-day consumers perceive as the distinct line between fantasy and science fiction. The previous installments each had one self-contained fantasy element to them — the ghosts of the Ark, the wicked juju of the Sankara Stones, the Grail and its associated defenses. The mechanical deathtraps may have been a stretch, but the truly unrealistic elements were minimal yet climactic.

Skull, in comparison, after a certain point makes an exodus from the real world altogether, evoking imagery and scenes from other films by the same creators in ways that feel more like a crossover stunt than a purebred Indiana Jones vehicle. (One world-famous line in particular is recited by the right actor in the wrong series. Only children under age six and people allergic to movies won’t get the reference. Cute idea; massive distraction.)

Don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed the film throughout for what it was on its most basic level — a high-budget throwback to the thrill-a-moment days of old, when a new reel would excite you at the theatre down the street every week for one low price. The talents involved know how to breed a crowd-pleaser in their sleep — even the resumé of screenwriter David Koepp looks like a future AFI Top 100 list just waiting to be contrived. They’ve made a successful film that, with any luck, will educate viewers under 30 about just what kind of brazen copycats the National Treasure films were.

Where Skull falls short is in its unnecessary effort to surround Our Hero with a ridiculously complicated support system — all those needless plot complications, all those upper-crust actors, all those flying car parts and animal attacks. Perhaps there was a fear that just seeing our old friend Indy one more time won’t be enough for us, that his first appearance after a nineteen-year dry spell must be no less than the grandest spectacle of them all, as if every second of those years has been spent leading up to this cinematic culmination, up to and including the fairy-tale ending that will have the Internet in a few varieties of tears.

Personally, all I wanted was two hours of Hat Guy. I’d be happy with some shooting, some whippersnapping, some car wrecks, and maybe some things that belong in museums. In today’s stakes-upping moviegoing marketplace, I don’t think Indy would’ve been too old for that.

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