Steven Spielberg’s ‘‘The Terminal’’ — a sweet if gropingly sentimental tale of waylaid travel and romantic limbo — is so calculated, so precious, so nakedly Spielbergian, one could easily mistake it for a talented forger’s attempt to parody the ‘‘Jurassic Park’’ filmmaker.

Which isn't to say ‘‘The Terminal’’ is embarrassingly bad, or unintentionally funny; it's simply a less-than-
transcendent anthology of storytelling devices repeatedly employed by Spielberg in his 30-odd years of feature filmmaking. Decorated with likable performances and appealing sentiments, it leaves us feeling both charmed and manipulated, like an overzealous airport security agent who makes friendly chit-chat while frisking your person.

It begins with that most storied of Spielbergian devices: the wide-eyed innocent, stranded far from home. Tom Hanks, affecting a flappity Slavic accent that sounds suspiciously like Ensign Chekhov from ‘‘Star Trek,’’ plays Viktor Navorski, a tourist from the fictional republic of Krakozhia who touches down in a major New York City airport only to discover that his country no longer exists, the result of an overnight military coup.

Spielberg — reteaming with Hanks for the third time in five years (“Saving Private Ryan,” “Catch Me If You Can”) — endears Viktor to us by infantilizing him. Adorably, the character speaks no English — replying ‘‘Yes’’ to questions such as ‘‘Who do you know in New York?’’ — and childishly clutches a rusted Planter's Peanuts tin, the contents of which hold the secret to his American sojourn.

Pasty skin and dorky Third World threads notwithstanding, Viktor has a lot in common with another Spielberg alien from years past. Like that bygone extraterrestrial, Viktor is confused and frustrated by his new surroundings and confounded in his attempts to ‘‘phone home’’ — no one will tell him how to use a pre-paid calling card.

Soon, Viktor bumps up against another of Spielberg's tried-and-true devices: bureaucratic tyranny. Like the displaced Jews in ‘‘Schindler's List,’’ Viktor is thrust into a wilderness of documents, stamps and cold officialdom. Stripped of his visa — with no country, he is ‘‘unacceptable’’ — Viktor finds himself trapped in customs purgatory — he can neither leave the airport nor return to his country until diplomatic relations are normalized.

Unsure what to do with Viktor, the airport's operations manager, Frank Dixon (Stanley Tucci from ‘‘The Imposters’’), hands the unfortunate Slav some food vouchers and marches him back into the terminal to fend for himself.

Though Tucci plays him with a certain smartness and balance, Dixon's hostility and ineptitude is inexplicable. He deceives Viktor, deprives him, tries to get him arrested, all — presumably — because he defies Dixon's dearly-held notions of bureaucratic perfection. Screenwriters Sacha Gervasi and Jeff Nathanson gamely try to preserve the conceit, but it never quite holds up. Even the most unimaginative paper-
pushing Napoleon could do better by Viktor than Dixon.

Anybody who has watched his movies closely knows that Spielberg has a sensual, almost fetishistic fascination with food — another distinguishing characteristic that makes ‘‘The Terminal’’ so very him. Words can scarcely describe the look of ecstacy on Hanks’ face (warning: the product placement in this movie is absolutely rampant) as he bites into a big, overpriced airport Whopper.
Oh, dear — at the end of the review already and still no mention of nominal leading lady Catherine Zeta-Jones (‘‘Entrapment’’), playing a romantically mixed-up stewardess named Amelia who is briefly, turbulently drawn to Viktor's clarity and goodness. Trapped in a never-ending affair with a married man, Amelia is Holly Golightly with a 401k — a stylish lass with a sparkling, who-gives-a-crap attitude about her own doomed, self-destructive existence.

Actually, there's a logical reason for burying Zeta-Jones at the bottom of the review. She continues Spielberg's tradition of churning out utterly disposable female love interests, a sorority that includes the filmmaker's own wife, Kate Capshaw (‘‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’’). Although Viktor successfully escapes limbo — leaving us with the fragile, bittersweet promise of American possibility — poor Amelia is thoughtlessly left on the tarmac, staring into the fog.