Conceding upfront that the sanctity of the film series that chronicles the adventures of an archeology professor who has some especially bustling sabbaticals took a significant hit with a comeback installment centered on a crystal skull, I think it’s still fair to note that filmmaker James Mangold takes on a formidable task with his new film Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. No matter how much the current Hollywood model relies on studios freely pilfering from the artifacts in their own tombs, there has to be some intimidation built in to being the first director not named Spielberg to preside over a bigscreen feature that hands Harrison Ford his old whip and sends him careening around the world for some old-school derring do. By all evidence, Mangold is an adoring disciple of the earlier films. He clearly intends to restore the dignified finale for our hero that was basically in place with Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. His heart is in the right place. Only his craft is lacking.

As the movie hits theaters, Ford is just a couple weeks shy of his eighty-first birthday. Accordingly, Mangold uses his fine golden-years Wolverine film, Logan, as the thematic model for how to approach the latest last ride of Indiana Jones. Living in New York City in the late nineteen-sixties, Jones is slouching towards his retirement, relentlessly irritated by the baby boomers he contended with, whether his hippie neighbors or dully inattentive students. Jones is tugged into his old cliffhanging ways when his goddaughter, Helena (Phoebe Waller-Bridge), arrives to eagerly enlist his help in tracking down a gizmo devised by Archimedes that supposedly relies on complex equations to pinpoint rifts in the space-time continuum.

Indy and Helena’s father, Basil (Toby Jones at his Toby Jonesiest), first came across this astounding item during World War II, which is depicted in the film’s opening sequence using convincing de-aging CGI on Ford. That special effect is about all that works in the long romp of fisticuffs and snarled patter, the first sign that Mangold isn’t really up to the task. Most of the scenes of Indy and his cohorts in action are cleverly conceived and mediocrely staged. A chase through an Apollo 11 ticker tape parade, Indy on horseback and his pursuers largely using motorized vehicles, is a good example. It always feels so very close to escalating into thrills, but it never manages to rip nor roar. Time and again, the Spielberg’s mastery of every element of visual storytelling is deeply mised.

There are attributes to found in Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, mostly among the cast. Waller-Bridge is a dandy enough addition that I kept longing for her to break out of the confines and find a better film for her talents, and Mads Mikkelsen transcends the more obvious beats given to his Nazi villain. Best of all of is Antonio Banderas, who takes a small role that amount to only a handful of scenes and makes an absolutely meal out of it. And Mangold’s obvious affection for the character and the best of his comes through. The film never feels like a mere cash-in, a soulless attempt to prolong the economic viability of a known quantity. Especially in the graceful callbacks of the warm closing scene, Mangold demonstrates the difference between earnest tribute and flavorless fan service. That’s just enough. Now it’s time to finally Indiana Jones ride into the sunset without having to circle back.