4. Indiana Jones
George Lucas might have a lot to answer for when it comes to Indy 4, and the case of the imbalanced, wayward story-telling (and the miserable attempts at humour,) but back when he first teamed up with Steven Spielberg to invent the greatest archeological adventurer known to cinema, he made very few such mistakes. The original Indy trilogy are an enduring testament to the success of a fairly simple formula, perfectly executed by a directing well-versed in thrilling and enchanting at the same time. The characters are strong and reliable throughout the films, without the kind of betrayals to their fundamental convictions that marred The Dark Knight Rises, and the ambitious set-pieces were genuinely thrilling. Impressively, the three films wander in tone without losing their core principles - as great, developmental, episodic stories always should - Raiders is a no-holds-barred adventure yarn, Temple Of Doom is far darker, and Last Crusade lightens the mood hugely with far more comedy. And all the while, Harrison Ford's Indiana Jones remains a shining beacon of hope and emotional engagement: we cared what happened to him, and the very suggestion that he might fall on a sword as an honourable gesture would have been abominable, because the character was more than a set of deranged principles. Impressively swerving the stigma associated with such bold religious statements, the Last Crusade even endorsed Christianity in an overt way that wouldn't now be tolerated in a mainstream release.
The Uncharacteristic Low Point? Dare suggest that Temple Of Doom is the low-point, even when only in reference to the other two films, and you'll probably be hung out to dry - likewise Last Crusade, which isn't always quite to modern, more cynical tastes, but which remains untouchable. The fourth film shouldn't have happened as it did, so let's just ignore it entirely and call it the firvolous ravings of an over-enthusiastic, under-skilled film-maker who had got by on reputation for 20 years, and clearly wanted everyone to really know how bad a writer he was, while also shoe-horning a rare blot on his friend's directing copy-book.