A good comedy must be funny; this shouldn’t be a debatable statement, and yet it would seem that as of late, too many studio efforts in the genre are making an effortful case for the contrary. Consider the earners of recent vintage: even in determinedly labeled comedies, humor is the pleasant diversion that greases the proceedings while we behold the CGI-laden stunts of Dwayne Johnson and Kevin Hart, gape at the immaculate visages of Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney, or ponder the confining roles of womanhood with our pal Barbie. The platonic ideal of a comedy as a machine that extracts laughter — and that the best comedy would necessarily be the one that operates at maximum capacity along these lines on a minute-to-minute basis — is not pursued nearly as doggedly as it should be.
Luckily, for Earth and its people and everyone who will live in the future, Detective Frank Drebin Jr. stops for nothing when he’s in hot pursuit. Not pedestrians. Not unfortunately placed beehives or clutches of helium balloons. Nothing.
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In keeping with the tradition of the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker brain trust’s original cop-on-the-edge spoofs, the rebooted Naked Gun condenses a staggering volume of jokes into a svelte sub-hour-and-a-half length, to the point that the question of whether any one gag works on you becomes immaterial. In about five seconds, there will be more daffy wordplay, more pratfalls, more left-field pop-culture references proudly long past their expiry date. The by-any-means-necessary bit barrage crams sight gags into the corners of frames, the credits, the infinitesimal space within edits. In a film that nobly aspires to everything being funny at all times, anything can be, the chief benefit of director Akiva Schaffer’s attention to and appreciation for the elements of cinematic form. You’ve got to be smart to be this stupid.
The virtuosic schtick construction meets a worthy match in the leads, two exemplary instances of unexpected yet inspired casting that play on the actors’ preexisting screen personae just as the original tapped hard-nosed Leslie Nielsen for deadpan self-parody. As Drebin the Younger, Liam Neeson is god’s perfect boob, fully locked into the sweet spot between unearned confidence and bone-deep idiocy where comedy flourishes. (As is essential for any performer trafficking in levity, he jumps at the chance to make himself look like a fool, not least in the profoundly satisfying line of dialogue that lays out the gerontocratic subtext of the rampaging-oldster pictures on which he built his career’s second act.) And as his femme fatale/right-hand gal Beth – known also by her undercover moniker, Ms. Spaghetti – a resurgent Pamela Anderson reveals unforeseen reserves of brilliant comic acumen, the depth of her commitment undeniable in an exquisitely silly musical interlude or a minute-long tangent involving dark magic, a snowman, and a samurai sword that gives this film its successor to Popstar’s immortal “offscreen bees” flight of absurd fancy.
When the opening minutes introduce a doohickey labeled “P.L.O.T. Device,” it’s an announcement that the actual case at hand is little more than occasion for bountiful setups and punch lines, though the timely edge is hard to miss in a tech-visionary villain (Danny Huston) pushing shoddy electric vehicles. But like many of the Elon Musk stand-ins peopling Hollywood productions in the years since Iron Man, any overtures to satirical critique fall flat due to the difficulty of replicating Musk’s weird combination of awkwardness, spitefulness, and neediness. Ultimately, Huston’s nefarious Richard Cane is just another megalomaniacal billionaire; in spite of this, it’s still pretty refreshing to see him punched in the gut.
Perhaps this one aspect sticks out because the rest of the film is so markedly not yoked to its moment, at once unfashionable and eternal in its evocation of a century of madcap Jewish yuks, from the Borscht Belt to MAD Magazine to Mel Brooks. The imperative is simple, unchanging, and absolute: make ‘em laugh, make ‘em laugh, make ‘em laugh. The Naked Gun is a volume business, and it succeeds by seriously heeding the sentiment presented sarcastically when applied to Drebin and his greying-badass ilk. Sometimes, the old ways really are best; a good pun is forever.
