Director James Mangold has taken over the reigns from Steven Spielberg, and he’s clearly studied the master’s playbook as if it were a holy scroll. There’s an undeniable rush to seeing the Raiders-era Jones/Ford replicated so faithfully, and done in a way that keeps skirting the edge of the uncanny valley yet never seems to plummet into it. (Ford was already in his late thirties when he first slipped into the weathered leather jacket and outran a boulder. That, and they’ve just kept themselves in such great shape that anyone would think they were half their current age. If we’re lucky, they simply battle it to a draw. Doesn’t matter if you digitally de-age and deepfake them all you want - and lord knows that Dial of Destiny does, courtesy of a prologue that channels that original Indy trilogy as best as it possibly can. But the latest chapter of Steven Spielberg’s throwback adventurer is centered around the idea that everyone, even the good guys we grew up worshiping and the movie stars who played them, can’t win the fight against the passing of the years. Ditto some shady government agents, a racist redneck, a henchman roughly the size and width of a redwood, a Moroccan kingpin with a scimitar, and your usual assorted thugs. Oh, there’s a ton of Nazis here too, trust us.

Yet Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny - the fifth movie to feature Harrison Ford’s globetrotting, snake-hating, whip-cracking, fedora-rocking archeology professor - pits our man Indy against the single greatest nemesis he’s ever faced: time. Indiana Jones has fought a lot of screen villains: Nazis, assassins, evil high priests, corrupt rich douchebags, Cate Blanchett, Cate Blanchett’s hair.

Dial a for aunties review