The Predator

It’s notable how utterly distracted I was by this film. Distracted by the constant meta-references in the script: riffs on dialogue in the 1987 original, character names, Shane Black’s Iron Man travesty. Distracted by the needlessly convoluted story, heaping on plot contrivances that necessitate the awkward tonal shifts into family comedy-drama and so on while failing to explain other things, even in a throwaway line, that might have bolstered the narrative. Distracted by its seeming compulsion to avoid building or sustaining anything approaching tension. Distracted by Alfie Allen’s inexcusably bad Irish accent (we’re only over here, like). Distracted, too, and frankly insulted by its hamfisted crypto-misogyny (don’t think I didn’t notice Olivia Munn’s character default to the motherly figure in the third act) and calculatedly ignorant portrayal of neurological difference, from autism to Tourette’s (and that blatant ‘retarded’ joke). This isn’t a case of being sore it isn’t the movie I would’ve wanted; this is, all things considered, just a bad one.