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I know, it’s about to leave theatres, but surely there’s something we should say about the newest foray in the Predator franchise. Something like: a group of aliens have captured the finest human predators on earth and transported them an intergalactic hunting ground where they test them one by one in a gruelling game of cat and mouse. Swish.
Or, maybe something like, having exhausted all the banal directions this series could possibly take, the makers of this gem have barely concealed their own resignation to remaking the original, covering their plot with the thin veil of a new location…well, still a jungle…and new characters…although, the girl is a relative of the girl from the first one or something? Or, how about, you remember how in the first one when Arnold and Carl Weathers meet for the first time they shake hands and the camera cuts in on their biceps and you realize that the movie is going to be little more than an excuse for Schwarzenegger to shed the seven shirts he’s apparently hiding under his combat vest…well that one shot is better than this movie, which is as pointless as trying to fight your way off a hunting range in the middle of another galaxy, whether or not you found some of that magic mud that makes your body temperature unreadable to thermal sensors (and why hasn’t the US military clued in?). Or maybe we should just say, why on earth did someone think it would be cool to have an aging Lawrence Fishburne rock up in a predator maks and whisper a nursery rhyme? Bah. (and by the way, the first Predator rocks.)
-plf.