PREDATORS: Catch a falling Brody, put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day.

PREDATORS
Starring Adrien Brody, Alice Braga, Topher Grace
Directed by Nimrod Amtal
20th Century Fox
Review by Louis Fowler

I wish I could sit down with the High Council of Predators, or, at the very least, their Parks and Rec representatives, and just let them know that they aren't the best of hunters. Yeah, I'll probably get my spine ripped out for the efforts, but these dreadlocked jokers need to know that they are probably the lamest killers in the universe. With their invisibility, sonic hearing, laser cannons, extending pikes and, when they especially feel like throwing a temper tantrum, a wrist-based nuclear device, where's the skill? Where's the thrill of the hunt? Where's the challenge?

Disagree if you want, but Predators are the galactic equivalent of throwing a stick of dynamite into a lake to catch a couple of fish. They are the interstellar version of shooting wolves from a helicopter. They are the old rich white men of the galaxy, laying down their fat cash to spend a week in a private resort that brings the game to you, making doubly sure that you never once break a sweat as you sit in an air-conditioned watchtower that routinely spits out feed to draw the unknowing deer in for a quick, clean kill.

I'm actually willing to bet that, strip a Predator of all his goodies, leave him with only a somewhat pointed stick and a loin cloth, within minutes he'll be in the fetal position on the jungle floor, crying for daddy to come pick him up and give him a vanilla cone from McDonald's on the way home, slowly pushing the buttons of his atomic wristwatch as the Ecto-Cooler-like tears stream-down his vagina-esque face.

That brings us to PREDATORS, the latest in the franchise and the only one to really reclaim the spinal-cord laced mantle laid neatly before us in the woefully underrated PREDATOR 2, but not by much. Produced by Robert Rodriguez and directed by Nimrod Amtal, PREDATORS opens with Adrien (SOLO) Brody free-falling and panicking, reminding me of many a nightmare I've had, only at least Brody's wearing pants. And not fucking Abraham Lincoln.

Now having a dude free-fall from the very first frame is probably one of the top ten most kick-ass ways to open a movie. So then why is the next thirty or so minutes so damn interminable? You'd think that the thing would hit the ground running—literally—but there is so much needless character and plot development that it brings the movie to a grinding halt. It's thirty minutes of Brody and company wandering around a vaguely familiar landscape, asking repeatedly “Where are we?” while each character—ranging from a Chechnyan mercenary with kids to a well-dressed Yakuza—all give background info on who they are, why they're there and what their special talent for killing is. Apparently the filmmakers were on the hunt for dialogue filler, and found a whole horde of it in this first act. Forget the chopper—get to an editor!

Don't get me wrong: I am all for character development and all that crap. Especially if I am watching, say, EAT PRAY LOVE. (Please, EAT PRAY LOVE, slather on the character development!) But, sadly, I am not watching EAT PRAY LOVE, I am watching PREDATORS and I know all I need to know about this movie and whatever plot it is supposed to have right there in the title. I know that there are going to be some Predators that are going to mow some unlucky fuckers down and...well, that's all I need. Guys, feel free to make the hunted humans as cardboard and two-dimensional as you want. Trust me: you will not, in any way, hurt this film.

After a gulag-like slog for the captives, the Predators—and, by Predators, I mean two or three, thanks, guys—show up and kinda-sorta wreak some havoc, unleashing some wild boar-dogs on the troupe and, you know, walking around all invisible and sneaking up behind people and gutting them, like total pussies are wont to do.

You expect the film to carry itself nicely down this path for the next hour, but, then, the ever-expanding Laurence (OSMOSIS JONES) Fishburne comes out of nowhere with an unnecessary cameo as a crazy feller who lives in an abandoned Predator ship and needs to exfoliate ASAP. We all chuckle heartily as he does his best impersonation of “crazy”, talking to imaginary best-friends while giving little snippets of not really important plot info here and there. And then he blows the Hell up. Hopefully his paycheck didn't get singed on the way out.

By the last act, things pick up and it truly becomes the PREDATOR movie that we all knew it could be—well, should be—and finally does what it is supposed to do. But is it a case of too little, too late? Almost. Should it stop you watching it? Of course not, especially when it's a nice, sunshiny day out and there are so many books to be read. We all fully understand what the filmmakers were trying to do: replicate the feel and pace of the original PREDATOR and give it the ol' sideways flippy-floppy—but c'mon, man: we've already seen that. Hundreds and hundreds of times. Do. Something. New. Was the original this tedious?

Massive story problems aside, PREDATORS still has a lot going for it. For example, after two spin-off sequels completely bereft of any type of lighting or camera operator whatsoever, the filmmakers not only invested in some lights, but a tripod. Go team. It was nice to actually be able to see a PREDATOR movie again, what with me dropping all that skrilla on a ticket and all.

Also, let's hear it for the casting, especially Brody. When Nicolas Cage entered the “Nicolas Cage”-era of his career, it kinda happened overnight and took everyone by surprise. We didn't know how to react because we, as a country, were fully unprepared. However, between this, SPLICE and GIALLO, we are the witnesses to history, seeing the building blocks to Brody's own “Nicolas Cage”-era. It is unfolding right before our eyes! Don't you dare turn away, either! I look forward to each and every thing Brody does from here on out and treating it with a slack-jawed respect and eye-popping aplomb that is worthy of such critic-deriding and culture-creating choices.

With all that being said though, it doesn't change the fact that the PREDATORS series needs something new, something formidable. The Predators need a human force of nature that can actually present a real challenge...

OK.: I was going to save this as pitch to whoever does those mass-market PREDATOR novelizations—Dark Horse, I think—but, like my dad used to say, “if nobody else can do it right, do it your damn self”. So, Mr. Rodriguez and Mr. Amtal, please take the time to hear my brilliant pitch:

For as long as man can remember, they've come from the skies, landing and hiding, hunting and killing, using us as wasteful sport. But, when a Predator ship crash-lands on a ranch in rural Texas, this time...we're prepared. HE'S prepared. The Predators are gonna find out they've fucked with the wrong man. The wrong madman. The Motor City Madman. Ted Nugent.

PREDATORS: FREE-FOR-ALL. Coming Summer 2012.

Mull it over, fellas. I'll wait for your call.