Aliens Come To Earth in Hunt of Sweet, Sweet Autistic Genius Brain Juice in 2020 The Predator

This is an unusually pure representation of the regrettable archetype of the Magical Autistic Child Super-Genius Archetype

I promise that at some point, possibly in the very near future, I will cover something other than an action movie for this column on autism in entertainment.

I’m tempted to go easy on action movies about autism because they do not have the time, sophistication, or emotional bandwidth to do justice to the complexities and nuances of life on the spectrum.

They’re action movies, after all, and action movies are, by definition, about action and violence and excitement, not chronicling the joys and sorrows of the neuro-divergent existence.

In The Predator, autism is not just a plot point but the one around which everything revolves.

The Predator depicts autism as a superpower that allows the autistic to do superhuman things, but they still have a terrible time holding a conversation or making eye contact.

The Predator’s conception of autism as the next step in evolution is at once insulting and flattering. The big, ugly guy from outer space comes down to our humble little planet specifically so that he can harness some of our pint-sized autistic hero’s sweet, sweet, magical autistic brain juice.

Like so many depictions of autism in movies that are not explicitly autism-themed, The Predator depicts autistic people as being different in a way that makes them objectively better than other people: smarter, more rational, and less controlled by emotions.

Also, REALLY good at math and science and everything math and science-related. As someone newly diagnosed as autistic deep into middle age, that can’t help but make me feel like I’ve failed the autistic community by being egregiously terrible at math and science. Autism did not grant me the math wizard science powers it granted autistic savants found in schlocky action movies, just an inability to function in the world.

I am a big Shane Black fan, so I had high hopes for 2018’s The Predator, which found Black, a cast member in the original 1987 Predator, returning to his roots, this time as a writer-director.

I was underwhelmed during my first viewing of The Predator for reasons that go above and beyond its gimmicky, cliched treatment of autism. I liked it even less this time around. It’s easily the worst film that Black has ever directed. It’s so off that it feels less like Black on a bad day than ersatz Black, with all of the macho posturing and quips but none of the wit and vitality that defines his best work as a screenwriter and director.

Black churned out that most ubiquitous and unnecessary of cinematic endeavors: an arbitrary, unnecessary reboot/sequel/whatever that aspires to do nothing more than make a cheap buck out of the cheap but potent buzz of recognition that comes with recycling old movies or television shows.

The problems start with casting Boyd Holbrook in the lead role. Holbrook is nothing more than a Dollar Store Kurt Russell, as Quinn McKenna, a deadly sniper who barely survives an encounter with a predator.

Quinn mails technology he took from the predator to a PO Box but is captured and held for observation by head bad guy Will Traeger (newly minted Oscar nominee Stirling K. Brown, fresh off his star-making performance in American Crime Story: The People Vs. O.J Simpson), a sinister government agent who doesn’t want Quinn’s experiences to become public.

Quinn is put on a bus with other soldiers who aren’t quite right in the head. Thomas Jane plays Baxley, a soldier with Tourette’s disease, which the movie finds hilarious. Incidentally, Black himself has Tourette’s, but that does not result in a sensitive depiction of the disorder.

The Predator aspires to the tough-as-nails, macho vibe of the original Predator and Aliens but comes up woefully short. Black is famous for his snappy banter and witty way with a one-liner, but the dialogue here lacks his usual snap and sparkle, and the characterizations are forgettable when they aren’t memorable for the wrong reasons.

Poor Keegan-Michael Key, who isn’t doing quite as well as his old partner Jordan Peele, grates as Coyle, a cracked clown who serves as comic relief you desperately want relief from.

When a Predator breaks loose, Quinn and his fellow soldiers/prisoners use it as an excuse to hijack their bus and break free to save Quinn’s son and hunt the intergalactic hunter.

Quinn’s autistic son Rory ends up with the alien technology, which he uses to hide from bullies who mock him for what they derisively refer to as his “Ass Burger.”

As played by Jacob Tremblay, he’s a tiny little thing with a big old brain who can understand and translate the alien language because of his magical autistic powers in math and science.

The Predator posits the intellect of an autistic child as a power so vast and incredible that alien warriors are willing to travel across the universe and kill countless soldiers to exploit its power.

There are multiple underwhelming predators in the film, not to mention Predator dogs that sound awesome in theory but, like pretty much everything in the film, sucks in reality.

The Predator doesn’t have the ambition and energy to actively suck in a way that might be interesting or distinctive or weird. Instead, it commits the unforgivable crime of being bland and generic.

The larger Predator, who came to Earth to hunt the smaller Predator, says that there is only one Earth warrior worthy of honor and consideration: McKenna. They naturally assume that by McKenna, they are referring to the cold-blooded sniper with thirteen confirmed kills.

The Predator is instead referring to Quinn’s son, who is about three feet tall and sixty pounds soaking wet but, thanks to his autism magic, is seen as the next step in evolution.

It’s a testament to how thoroughly The Predator fails to deliver the goods that during action sequences pitting an eleven-foot warrior from beyond the stars against a gaggle of cracked soldiers, I found myself pining for a subplot involving Rory’s autism that I found wrong-headed at best and offensive at worst.

The Predator wants Rory’s genes so that he can fuse them with his own and become even more powerful. Can you even imagine how good a Predator with the genes of an autistic child would be at solving puzzles and mathematical equations? Why, the possibilities are limitless! An Autism-Enhanced eleven-foot Predator would be a ferocious physical and intellectual force, not unlike the title character in The Accountant.

The Predator ends by teasing a sequel that would find Rory wearing a Predator-Killer suit the movie desperately wants you to think is so awesome that you’ll forget about how disappointed you were in everything that precedes it.

That dumb ending does not save this regrettable exercise in bad-taste mediocrity.