June 14, 2025
by Chandler Owens
It was inevitable, though no one quite expected it to happen this way: Spaceballs 2 is officially in development and slated for theatrical release in 2027. The announcement came today from Amazon MGM Studios, confirming that Mel Brooks will return as Yogurt, with Rick Moranis reprising his role as Dark Helmet and Bill Pullman stepping back into his once-parodic hero boots. Even Lewis Pullman, Bill’s real-life son, is reportedly joining the cast, in what is already being pitched as a sequel that “knows exactly what it is.”
It’s not a reboot, not exactly a parody of reboots, but something in between: a self-aware sequel that will—if the tone of the press release holds—mock the idea of franchise revivals while functioning as one. In other words, it’s exactly what a Spaceballs sequel should be. Josh Greenbaum is directing, and Brooks is co-writing the script with Josh Gad, Benji Samit, and Dan Hernandez. There’s no release date locked in yet, but production is reportedly moving quickly. In an era when most franchise announcements come wrapped in vague promises and corporate synergy, this one is refreshingly honest: the absurdity is built into the premise.
The original Spaceballs came out in 1987 and, like most of Mel Brooks’ genre work, didn’t land cleanly with critics at the time. It was seen as a lightweight send-up, late to the Star Wars satire game and over-reliant on visual gags. But audiences—especially those who grew up with it in the VHS era—knew better. Spaceballs didn’t just spoof Star Wars. It spoofed the entire idea of science fiction as a self-serious space opera genre. And it did it with a level of affection most parodies couldn’t fake.
There’s something about the way Spaceballs mocked merchandising, or turned hyperspeed into “Ludicrous Speed,” that cut deeper than slapstick. It didn’t just point at genre tropes—it unstitched them, laid them out, and made the audience complicit in their absurdity. Tesla, decades later, would use those very same joke speeds in their Model S software. The legacy isn’t just comedic—it’s cultural. Brooks understood that science fiction had become just as much a marketing platform as a storytelling one, and he delivered that message with rubber helmets, giant hairdryers, and Yogurt’s unmatched ability to hawk branded toilet paper.
Brooks knew exactly what he was doing. He cast Bill Pullman as a parody of both Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, rolled Daphne Zuniga into a version of Princess Leia with twice the self-awareness, and let Rick Moranis transform Darth Vader into a neurotic middle manager with delusions of grandeur. The result was a film that felt completely unserious, but in hindsight had more to say about genre fatigue, consumerism, and the thin line between homage and parody than many of the films it was mocking. The fact that it included John Candy in full Barf makeup, barking and tail-wagging his way through scenes with a kind of joyful abandon, only solidified its commitment to ridiculousness. It wasn’t just parody—it was parody with purpose.
Its influence is understated, but persistent. Without Spaceballs, it’s hard to imagine Galaxy Quest hitting as well as it did, or shows like The Orville being greenlit with such a confident blend of satire and sincerity. Even Guardians of the Galaxy owes part of its DNA to that willingness to play with sci-fi’s theatricality. You don’t get modern irreverent space adventures without the cultural permission Spaceballs helped codify. And while Star Wars has veered back and forth across the line between myth and meme, Spaceballs never pretended it was anything other than absurd. That clarity is what made it work.
That’s exactly why the sequel matters. Not because audiences are begging for more Yogurt or Pizza the Hutt, but because a revival of this kind only works when it understands what made the original last. It wasn’t just that Spaceballs was funny. It was that it came at the right time, in the right voice, with the right instinct about what deserved to be made fun of—and what didn’t. And because Brooks never punched down, the film aged better than most of its peers. It mocked the powerful, not the powerless. It mocked the tropes, not the people playing them. And it never once asked its audience to take it seriously.
Now, in a cinematic landscape bloated with universes, lore dumps, and legacy sequels that take themselves more seriously than the Constitution, Spaceballs 2 has the opportunity to mock the industry and the audience while still being oddly, uncomfortably honest. If the original made fun of the overreach of the late-80s blockbuster era, this sequel has a hundred new targets lined up and waiting. Streaming fatigue. Cinematic multiverses. Nine-part prequel arcs. Overblown theatrical trailers for characters no one remembers. All of it is ripe for dismantling. And if the original had fun skewering Alien, Star Trek, and Star Wars, the sequel has the added luxury of skewering the overexposed, hyper-marketed, content-bloated world those franchises now inhabit.
Whether the new cast can thread that needle—and whether Brooks’ voice can still cut through the noise—is a separate question. But if there’s anyone who understands the difference between dumb parody and deliberate satire, it’s Mel Brooks. He doesn’t just go for the laugh. He goes for the moment that makes the laugh uncomfortably accurate. That’s always been the real joke. And while other legacy sequels have floundered trying to mix reverence and revision, Spaceballs 2 has the distinct advantage of not being expected to respect anything. It never asked for sacred ground. It just asked for a laugh and maybe a few drops of Lone Starr’s sweat.
So Spaceballs 2 is happening. And if it’s anything like the original, it won’t just reflect the genre—it’ll expose it. And maybe, if we’re lucky, it’ll remind everyone that not every space opera needs to be sacred. Sometimes, it just needs to be mocked until it makes sense again. And sometimes, the best way to critique the future is by dragging it through the past in a Winnebago with wings.
