The case opens with a bang—literally. A villain cracks a safety deposit box labeled “P.L.O.T. Device,” and from that moment, Akiva Schaffer’s reboot of The Naked Gun declares its allegiance to the absurd. Liam Neeson, our new LN, steps into the trench coat of Frank Drebin Jr., son of the original LN, Leslie Nielsen. The initials echo through the film like a punchline with a badge: LN is back, and he’s got a particular set of pratfalls.
Neeson plays it straight, which is to say, crooked. His Drebin Jr. is a man haunted by legacy and chili dogs, a cop who arrests chaos but not himself. The film’s tone is hard-boiled and half-baked, a detective yarn unraveled by gags, groans, and glorious nonsense. Neeson’s gravitas turns every line into a threat and every pratfall into prophecy. He’s not spoofing Nielsen—he’s spoofing Neeson spoofing Nielsen spoofing Drebin. That’s LN cubed.
Pamela Anderson, as Beth Davenport, slinks into the plot with a microphone and a motive. Her brother’s death leads Drebin into a conspiracy involving tech mogul Richard Cane (Danny Huston), whose plan to weaponize smartphones feels both ludicrous and eerily plausible. Anderson’s performance is sharp, her timing crisp, and her karaoke scene—where she accidentally triggers a riot—is the film’s comedic crescendo.
As Ed Hocken Jr., Paul Walter Hauser is the film’s ballast. His chemistry with Neeson gives the movie its rhythm, and his physical comedy channels the spirit of the original without mimicry. CCH Pounder’s Chief Davis brings authority and exasperation, while Moses Jones as Nordberg Jr. gets a few meta winks but not enough screen time. The supporting cast, including Liza Koshy, Eddy Yu, and Busta Rhymes, is game but underused.
The plot is a tangled web of bank heists, brainwashing, and bidets. It succeeds in being ridiculous, but stumbles when it tries to be coherent. The pacing is brisk, the jokes relentless, and the narrative held together by duct tape and deadpan. The theme—legacy, lunacy, and the burden of being LN in a world that’s forgotten LN—is touched on but never explored. Drebin Jr. is chasing his father’s shadow with a banana peel.
Schaffer’s direction is energetic, if uneven. He nails the tone in bursts—especially during a courtroom scene where Drebin cross-examines a mannequin—but loses grip in the third act, which devolves into cameos and chaos. The film’s best moments are its quietest: a eulogy delivered in fart noises, a flashback narrated by a confused GPS, and Priscilla Presley’s cameo, which feels like a benediction from the original trilogy.
This Naked Gun is louder, messier, and more self-aware than the original. It lacks the elegance of Nielsen’s obliviousness, but compensates with Neeson’s earnest absurdity. The jokes are hit-and-miss—some land with precision, others crash through the floor. But the cast is committed, the spirit intact, and the film never forgets its mission: to make you laugh, even if it has to trip over its shoelaces.
The film avoids the trap of dated pop culture references, favoring timeless wordplay and sight gags. It doesn’t reach the comedic heights of Popstar or the original Naked Gun, but it doesn’t fall flat either. It’s a legacy sequel that respects its roots while planting new weeds. LN lives on—not as Leslie Nielsen or Liam Neeson, but as a legacy of lunacy.
Ultimately, The Naked Gun (2025) is a mixed-to-positive reboot that honors its heritage while embracing its ridiculousness. It’s not a classic, but it’s not a catastrophe. It’s a movie that knows it’s dumb and leans into it with gusto. LN is dead. Long live LN.
Grade: B+.
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