‘Predator: Badlands’ is Trachtenberg’s Weakest Entry in the Franchise
I won’t win many friends with this review, but I genuinely hated almost every second of Predator: Badlands. This is Dan Trachtenberg’s third go-around in the Predator franchise, after revitalizing the series with the (very good) Prey in 2022 and the (nifty, but forgettable) Predator: Killer of Killers earlier this year.
With Badlands (not to be confused with the Terrence Malick film of the same name), Trachtenberg once again attempts something different with the Yautja, this time remythologizing them as the hero of the story. Inherently, that’s not a terrible proposition. What if the audience is forced to confront their biases on one of the most terrifying antagonists in science-fiction history and must sympathize with a character that, up to this point, was illustrated as a relentless killing machine?
The opening scene should give an idea of the expansion of the world Trachtenberg wants to visualize, as he stages a Yautja-on-Yautja confrontation between our protagonist, Dek (Dimitrius Schuster-Koloamatangi), and his brother, Kwei (Mike Homik), on the planet Yautja Prime, before the bare bones of the plot are set in motion. Yet, there isn’t an image that audiences can latch onto, since the entirely synthetic environment looks like complete mush in the hands of Trachtenberg and cinematographer Jeff Cutter. Unlike Prey, which featured textured cinematography that allowed audiences to practically feel like they were an omniscient observer of the story being told, or Killer of Killers, whose expressive animation expanded the franchise in ways previously thought impossible, Badlands looks as shoddy and lifeless as most blockbusters produced in this economy.
It’s genuinely shocking to see the lack of geography and kinetics in its almost relentless succession of PG-13 action sequences, especially considering Trachtenberg’s versatility in previous installments (and in his excellent feature directorial debut, 10 Cloverfield Lane). Everything looks like pure sludge, especially in its dimly lit climax, where entirely computer-generated creatures fight against each other, and the audience has no satisfaction in being able to perceive what’s going on.
Forget the fact that the film removes most of what audiences want out of a Predator installment (read: gore, but, of course, this isn’t the only PG-13 film of the franchise, if one counts Paul W.S. Anderson’s Alien vs. Predator). If we can’t actually get something out of its images, what makes this a worthwhile entry?
We live in an era where audiences are becoming less and less “shot-conscious” (a term coined by Robert Gessner and later adopted by David Bordwell). Instead of thinking about the images or being interested in what a frame means, it’s all about “plot” and “character development” when these are the most meaningless aspects of any motion picture; especially an action picture where large-scale battles are at the forefront of the on-screen spectacle.
If you can’t create spectacle through its visual language, then how do you expect an audience to care about the “plot” or the characters? A plot that is so threadbare and nonexistent, it almost feels miraculous that it’s able to track a through line. It haphazardly evolves its protagonist on a journey of self-actualization that never feels urgent, nor interesting enough to care about the Predator’s supposed newfound “humanization.”
Predator: Badlands is an empty spectacle devoid of any sense of aesthetics
Remythologizing the Yautja is a risky gamble, but one that can pay off if one feels something out of Trachtenberg’s sense of spectacle. Yet, in Badlands, he surprisingly possesses none. This movie feels much smaller in scale and scope than his previous two outings, even though it was released on the big screen (in IMAX 3D, no less. With a noticeably poor post-converted stereoscopic effort, by the way). In contrast, the others had the privilege (read: crime) of being TV movies. Isn’t it funny that the one that looks the most like a disposable, extended episode of a Disney+ series is the one released in cinemas, and the other two, that feel decidedly cinematic, weren’t allowed to find a fan base on the big screen?
Look at how Trachtenberg stages his bravura set piece in Prey, where the Yautja fights against an army of French trappers attempting to capture him. The barren, desolate landscape of a forest reduced to ash already signifies that the humans trying to control a creature they don’t understand will eventually join the soil before the action even begins. And when it does, how Trachtenberg and Cutter play with space is genuinely thrilling. Yes, it’s gritty, but, most importantly, there’s actual thought in how the ferocity of the Predator is represented, and in how each kill should be staged for the audience to understand its true power.
Now, compare this with any action beat in Badlands. Better yet, play them side-by-side. Is there a moment where Trachtenberg, even with PG-13 limitations, can stage something on the same pedestal as his 2022 film? Predator-on-Predator fight sequences don’t necessarily need an R-rating to have one nifty sequence of pure spectacle after the next. Yet, Trachtenberg’s staging here feels surprisingly restrained and unimpressive. Most of the “gritty” and unrelenting violence has been stripped out of its most potent characteristics in favor of murky, incoherent, poorly staged, and lit battles that possess no kinetic energy, catharsis, or segment that encourages the audience to fist pump in their seats and exclaim “hell yeah!”
There should be one moment that instills some dopamine hit to the viewer. After all, isn’t it why we watch a Predator movie? To see some cool stuff? Strangely enough, though, we’re never allowed to bathe in Dek’s heroism, since Trachtenberg will either film the “gnarliest” sections of its fight scenes at a distance (so the audience sees as little blood as possible) or, worse yet, cut away from the violence for a reaction shot of its Weyland-Yutani android, Thia (Elle Fanning) that basically equates to their version of the “well…that just happened” quip popularized in Marvel movies.
Elle Fanning shines despite a poorly written script
Fanning is the most interesting aspect of the movie because her dual role as androids Thia and Tessa strangely responds to the “dual” personalities she embodies in Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value (both released on the same weekend). It obviously wasn’t intentional. Both are completely distinct works in her filmography that have nothing to do with each other. That said, it does add a compelling layer of metatext that makes her character(s) feel three-dimensional, unlike Dek, whose trite quest to kill a creature known as the Kalisk never rings urgent or psychologically riveting.
Fanning appears to be having fun playing two distinct androids. In contrast, Trachtenberg seems more interested in turning the Predator franchise into a brand akin to Star Wars or the MCU. Replete with kooky side characters, joke-a-minute characters and action sequences that feel as digitally boring as most large-scale blockbusters released today; instead of taking the opportunity to flip the story on its head and do something feels as distinct and fresh as his previous two entries in the franchise.
Final thoughts on Predator: Badlands
Killer of Killers wasn’t perfect, but repurposing the lineage of the Yautja throughout history gave the film a sense of purpose, with images that supported its large-scale, anthological structure. Badlands has entirely CGI characters in entirely artificial environments fighting synthetic creatures with no emotional weight behind any of its gestures or nonexistent camera movements.
Badlands is flat, ugly, possesses no sense of character depth or spectacle, and the alchemy between the Yautja and android is predictable at best, and pitifully written at worst. The story is incredibly rudimentary, but that doesn’t necessarily matter when everything surrounding it isn’t entertaining, nor does it give the viewer anything to latch onto.
It’s a Predator movie for the Cocomelon generation, one that refuses to think about what they’re watching and would rather get keys jangled at their faces than grasp anything meaningful out of their entertainment. The non-shot-conscious moviegoing public will eat it up, but what about those who think of cinema as a purely visual medium and an art form that must have an image of note to support everything else on screen? Since it’s as lifeless as The Mandalorian, in its structure, photography, and storytelling, I’ll let you answer that question…
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