How to Train Your Dragon (2025)

There's no denying that remakes come with baggage. Especially when the source material is as beloved, acclaimed, and emotionally potent as How to Train Your Dragon (2010). So let's get the obligatory discourse out of the way: no, a film doesn't need to "justify its existence" to be worth seeing. That phrase grates on me every time I hear it now. I try imagining a world where you have to justify your own existence at every turn, the way film "fans" often demand it of art. It's become a reflex—this belief that a remake must somehow prove itself beyond just being good. But when we ask whether a film 'deserves' to exist, we're not really engaging with the work—we're gatekeeping it before it even has a chance to speak. 

Remakes, like cover songs, are part of a long and rich tradition in creative expression. Classic video games are re-rendered with upgraded visuals and improved mechanics for modern consoles all the time. Rock artists strip down their hits into acoustic sets. Jazz musicians reinterpret the same standards for generations. Just because something hits all the same beats and plays all the same notes doesn't make it devoid of the same emotion. In fact, the opposite is often true.

Such is the case with Dean DeBlois’s retelling of his 2010 film How to Train Your Dragon. From the moment the first flying scene kicks in, it's clear that DeBlois hasn't lost his grip on what made How to Train Your Dragon soar. The live-action adaptation brings a new kind of magic—one grounded in real terrain and expressive human faces but still deeply connected to the spirit and scale of the original. The flying sequences, in particular, are breathtaking and worthy of every bit of that IMAX premium. The sensation of wind, speed, and freedom—essential to Hiccup and Toothless's bond—translates gorgeously to this new medium. The way the camera tightens and shutters when Hiccup and Toothless first learn to fly together makes it feel visceral, chaotic, and exhilarating. You feel like you're up there with them, gripping the saddle and holding your breath.

The film stays remarkably faithful to the 2010 version, which, in this case, is a strength, not a limitation. There's no need to reinvent the wheel when the original story is already this strong. At its heart, it remains the story of Hiccup, an awkward, sensitive Viking misfit who upends everything his village believes about dragons. But more than that, it's about a boy and his father—Stoick the Vast, the stoic warrior chieftain who grieves the loss of his wife and sees strength as the only way forward. The father-son dynamic is just as layered and emotionally rich here, maybe even more so in live-action. Gerard Butler, who's voiced Stoick across multiple entries in the franchise, isn't just revisiting a role; he's been given room to physically embody Stoick this time, and the performance benefits from that in all the right ways. Sharing space with Mason Thames, the two create something more resonant, each actor complementing the other. Mason Thames doesn't try to imitate Jay Baruchel's iconic vocal delivery, nor should he. His version of the character is still awkward and uncertain, but his body language has a subtle earnestness that works beautifully. The father-son emotional arc hits harder in this version precisely because we can engage with the full range of human expression—more than just voice and animation.

One of the most powerful messages of the original film—and, by extension, this new version—is the courage it takes to buck conventional wisdom, even when you're standing alone. One of the film's most resonant themes is questioning how things have always been done, pushing back against cycles of fear and violence despite immense societal and cultural pressure. All Vikings are expected to kill dragons. It's not just tradition—it's their entire identity, passed down through generations, reinforced by fear, pride, and a cultural mythology of dominance. Hiccup has internalized this as much as anyone. He wants to belong. He wants to make his father proud. But something shifts when he's finally face to face with a dragon. Maybe it's when he first locks eyes with Toothless. Perhaps it's when Toothless doesn't strike back. Either way, in that moment, Hiccup recognizes something profound: this war they've been waging is wrong. Standing up and speaking the truth takes immense courage when you know you'll be the only one doing it. Hiccup does, and it reshapes everything that follows.

One element that differs slightly from the original is some additional texture given to the supporting cast, including Nico Parker as Astrid. With an extended runtime—about 25 minutes longer than the animated version—the film has more space to flesh out Hiccup and Astrid's budding relationship and the social dynamics within the dragon training class. One new angle I appreciated is how the film subtly positions Hiccup as a child of privilege. He's the chief's son, allowed to bungle his way through life while others—Astrid, Snotlout, Fishlegs, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut—must prove themselves daily just to stay relevant. There's an undercurrent of resentment from the others that adds fascinating texture. It's not overplayed, but it adds a sharpness to their group dynamic I didn't remember from the original.

And, of course, we can't talk about How to Train Your Dragon without talking about John Powell's legendary score. Thankfully, the film retains the iconic musical themes that made the original such an emotional powerhouse. I love every phrase of it—endlessly expressive, sweeping, and heart-stirring. The way he weaves in different arrangements, shifting fluidly between strings, percussion, and even bagpipes—it’s one of my favorite film scores of all time, and hearing those motifs reworked for a full orchestra in a theater again was genuinely moving.

How to Train Your Dragon isn't a reinvention. It's a faithful, loving adaptation. And that's more than enough. We don't need every story retold to "say something new." Sometimes, it's enough to be reminded why the story mattered in the first place. Sometimes the beauty of a remake—or a reinterpretation—is that it can expand the reach of a piece of art. Someone who doesn't typically watch animated films might stumble across this version and finally connect with the story. Someone who never gave the original a spin might hear this new 'cover' and discover something resonant. Some work, some don't. And really, a film shouldn't have to justify its existence any more than a dragon in Berk should. Dismissing an artist's work as soulless just because it echoes something familiar is like labeling dragons as monsters without ever trying to understand them. The truth is, retelling a story doesn't strip it of meaning—it can illuminate it in new ways, deepen its emotional reach, and draw in someone who may have never experienced it before. Stories endure not because they change, but because they continue to resonate. This one still does.