Out for blood
Witty banter and quirky combatants no match for Predator’s excessive violence
In the realm of science fiction films there are reboots, remakes and reimaginings. But director and co-writer Shane Black’s The Predator is something else. Revenge, perhaps?
Back in 1987, Black was an up-and-coming writer (Lethal Weapon) and an actor with a single credit to his name. “Hawkins,” in the Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle Predator, comes to an ignominious end, turned inside out by an alien kill ray.
Over the next three decades — and far be it from me to suggest some calculated plan — Black amassed a decent portfolio of writing and directing credits, including 2013’s Iron Man 3.
Which brings us to The Predator, sixth in the series if you count such silly spinoffs as Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Drawing on Black’s more-is-more ethos, the alien hunters don’t bother much with camouflage this time out, preferring to run around in the open, looking like the cosplay version of an unholy union between Slipknot’s drummer and an extra from Battlefield Earth.
The film’s ’80s sci-fi vibe starts
early, with the deliberately lowbudget crash of a UFO in Mexico. U.S. sniper Quinn McKenna (Boyd Holbrook) witnesses the mayhem that follows and makes off with a few choice bits of alien tech, which he mails to his estranged wife (Yvonne Strahovski) and son (Jacob Tremblay): Shades of the recent movie Kin as junior uses it to scare away some neighbourhood bullies.
As to what happens next, just imagine if you took a phone from a grizzly bear, but she had the Find My Phone app. Quinn now has to keep ahead of the aliens, find his kid and, for good measure, rescue a bio-geneticist (Olivia Munn) who’s been brought in by the government to assess the threat. Hint: It’s very high.
Quinn is aided by a bunch of quirky soldiers with a variety of mental issues, as if the A-Team were made of nothing but Murdochs. (Hey, if this film is going to ’80s out, critics should be allowed to do likewise.)
Never mind that the screenwriters — Shane and Fred, also known as Black and Dekker — play fast and loose with Tourette’s, PTSD and a host of other problems. The Cuckoo’s Nest of sidekicks provide enough snappy patter to keep you giggling and take your mind off the excessive violence. The Predator is rated R for blood, sweat and tears — but mostly blood.
And perhaps this is asking too much of space aliens whose inner fluids glow green, but there does seem to be a convenient lack of resolve when the Predator faces off against someone the story needs to keep around a while longer. It kills except when the plot demands that it doesn’t. Also, note the expedient arrival of a predatory space-dog, which proves remarkably trainable.
Finally, there’s an ideal sense of timing when the film sets up the inevitable sequel, which I can almost guarantee Black will not be directing, if it happens at all. He’s proven he’s better than the franchise that started his acting career. No need to flog a dead alien.