“Gentlemen, remember… they’re large, they’re fast, and fucking you up is their idea of tourism.” — Traeger

Shane Black’s The Predator (2018) lands with a bang, offering a spectacle heavy on action, gore, and the signature snarky humor Black is known for. If you come looking for a suspenseful, tightly wound survival story in the tradition of the original 1987 film, you’re in for something very different—a gonzo mashup of nostalgia, R-rated slapstick carnage, and creature-feature excess that leans gleefully into genre absurdity.

The plot barrels forward with almost reckless energy. Boyd Holbrook stars as Quinn McKenna, a sniper whose mission goes haywire when a Predator spaceship crashes to Earth. Through a sequence of provocatively silly events, McKenna’s autistic son, Rory (Jacob Tremblay), ends up with the alien’s high-tech gear, unwittingly drawing attention from both the government and the technologically advanced Predators themselves. McKenna teams up with a ragtag bunch of soldiers, each with their own collection of quirks and psychological scars, plus Olivia Munn’s biologist Casey Bracket. This time, the hunt spills out of the jungle and into suburbia, with the chaos quickly escalating as a souped-up, genetically upgraded Predator enters the mix.

Where the 1987 original thrived on tension and jungle-stalking suspense, Black’s take is more about velocity, bloody spectacle, and loud, rapid-fire banter. The tone is set early, never letting up: The jokes fly thick and fast, the action is relentless, and there’s barely a lull for actual character development. The chemistry among “the Loonies,” McKenna’s loose-cannon squad, is the highlight—Keegan-Michael Key and Thomas Jane, in particular, deliver a mix of comic relief and bruised pathos that provides Black with fertile ground for his trademark dialogue. Sterling K. Brown chews the scenery as Traeger, the government antagonist, with a kind of joyous villainy that’s hard not to enjoy, even when the narrative slides into pure chaos. Olivia Munn starts strong as a scientist thrown into the deep end but is ultimately brushed aside by the film’s mayhem-heavy set pieces.

The film’s comedic pulse is strong, sometimes to its own detriment. Shane Black fills out every moment with his specific brand of irreverence, which works best in the banter between the Loonies but can undercut the menace of the Predators themselves. The violence is over-the-top, with practical splatter and digital effects combining for set pieces that are more monstrous brawls than hunting sequences. The movie rarely worries about internal logic—kids instantly deciphering alien technology and scientists surviving actions that would doom most is par for the course here. For fans of the previous films, there are enthusiastic callbacks and plenty of Easter eggs, though these are delivered more as punchlines than as foundations for new franchise mythology.

One of the film’s major issues is its kitchen-sink approach: it tries to be a throwback action movie, a gory sci-fi thriller, and a self-aware parody all at once. The result is a film constantly threatening to come apart at the seams—some viewers will find the tonal whiplash exhausting, with jokes about mental illness and disability that are more dated than daring. The narrative bounces between subplots and characters so quickly that plot armor and convenient twists abound, while the stakes themselves grow ever more implausible. If you’re looking for slow-burn tension or the primal fear that powered John McTiernan’s or even Stephen Hopkins’ installments, you’ll find yourself unmoored by the gleeful chaos and genre self-parody that Black serves up.

Still, for all its messiness, The Predator is never boring. It’s an action movie that refuses to slow down, boldly swapping iconic mud-soaked hunting for suburban street battles, and musclebound brawn for damaged, wise-cracking outcasts. It is, in its own profane, ADD-addled way, a love letter to the kind of big, dumb, fun genre movies that Black himself helped define in the late ’80s and ’90s.

Ultimately, The Predator isn’t a triumphant reinvention of the franchise nor a true return to the original’s nerve-shredding simplicity. Fans looking to see a return to the franchise’s glory days will be sorely disappointed. However, taken on its own merits and not dragged down by the expectations brought by the franchise, the film does entertain with its wild, unruly, blood-spattered romp that wears its flaws on its sleeve and dares the audience to laugh along with the carnage. If you’re in it for straight-up monster mayhem, creative kills, and a barrage of one-liners, you’ll have a blast. If you’re looking for restraint, genre evolution, or old-school suspense, you’ll probably end up shaking your head—grinning, maybe, but shaking it all the same.