“You’re always saying I’m so predictable!” Liam Neeson tells Maggie Grace at the beginning of this third and probably final vehicle for the indomitable Bryan Mills, he of the intimidating phone manner and very particular set of skills. “I wanted to shake it up a bit!” Alas, what few shake-ups there are in Taken 3 – a location shift from Europe to Los Angeles, a running-man plot and a distinct shortage of actual taking – are generally to the detriment of a franchise.

Where Liam’s ex-covert operative had his family’s welfare at heart in the original Taken and its 2012 follow-up, he’s merely saving his own skin in Olivier Megaton’s threequel – the result of a hoary, Fugitive-style bereavement that sees him framed for a murder he did not commit. The action that follows displays a similar lack of vim and invention, neutered as it is by a 12A certificate that renders every shoot-out bloodless and every impact softened by an immediate cut-away.

True, there’s mild fun to be had watching Neeson reverse a car down a liftshaft or hijack the cop car that’s taking him to the big house. At no point, however, do we ever feel he’s in any genuine peril – a consequence, perhaps, of pitting him against as gormless a collection of goons and coppers as ever populated a mainstream Hollywood thriller.

Watching Mills run rings around Forest Whitaker’s supposedly smart detective resembles nothing so much as a sadistic pet-owner tormenting a cat with a light-pen. Small wonder, then, that he dispenses with the Mafioski villains with ease, looking as bored as he does so as you’re bound to be at the end of this dispiriting cash-in.

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His latest addition to the geri-action genre sees him reunite with Spanish helmer Jaume Collet-Serra, who previously directed Neeson in 2011’s mistaken-identity thriller Unknown . Here, the big guy plays US federal air marshal Bill Marks. Right off the bat, we know he’s got problems, when he slugs back some liquor in the airport parking lot.

Fortunately, he’s not flying the plane. But things swiftly go awry after he boards, in New York, a transatlantic jumbo bound for London. No sooner has he stowed his hand luggage than he receives a text: unless a whopping $150 million is deposited in an off-shore account, one passenger will die every 20 minutes.

It’s a set-up Hitchcock would be proud of, with a plot that keeps the unseen extortionist one step ahead of both Marks and us. After the first victim turns out to be Marks’ fellow marshal – killed by Marks himself in a masterful piece of manipulation by his persecutor – things get worse when it’s revealed that the bank account awaiting the pay off is in our hero’s name.

With those on the ground suddenly believing he’s the terrorist, Marks has no choice but to bully his way through the manifest and try and clear his name. Enlisting the help of Julianne Moore’s passenger and Michelle Dockery’s air hostess, Marks can’t even be sure of them, just as we can’t fully trust him.

Collet-Serra cranks up the tension and keeps it hanging at 35,000 feet – and for two-thirds this is real edge-of-your-seat stuff as you’re left trying to figure out how it all fits together. Neeson keeps us involved, while the support cast is also pleasing – from Linus Roache’s pilot to 12 Years A Slave ’s Lupita Nyong’o’s trolley dolly and Scoot McNairy’s passenger.

But just as the film begins to make its descent, it goes wildly off course. For all the fiendish ingenuity behind Marks’ torment, the explanations and motives are utterly lame. Likewise, the emotional journey, as Marks finds redemption for a past emotional trauma, is enough to make you reach for the sick bag. Rarely has a film squandered such promise.

Verdict: A nifty lift-off and a tense first hour lead us, disappointingly, to a very bumpy landing. While Neeson and co. do their best, the script just doesn’t deliver where it really matters.

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