Few long-standing cinematic franchises manage to achieve a resurgence as impressively consistent and revitalizing as the *Predator* series is currently experiencing. Beginning with the release of 2022’s *Prey*, the science-fiction horror saga has undergone a remarkable transformation, reinvigorated by successive entries — this year’s *Predator: Killer of Killers* and the recently premiered *Predator: Badlands*. The connective tissue behind this renaissance is filmmaker Dan Trachtenberg, who not only helmed all three installments but also infused them with thematic depth and stylistic cohesion that echo his celebrated feature debut, 2016’s *10 Cloverfield Lane*.
What distinguishes Trachtenberg’s trilogy is not solely its ability to please long-time devotees of the alien hunting mythos through thoughtful touches — such as canonizing fan-favorite terms like “Yautja” directly into film lore or staging audacious narrative experiments like pitting Predators against divergent historical factions — but its unifying undercurrent of shared ideas. The films, while autonomous in setting and tone, are bound by resonant motifs and philosophical explorations that suggest an ambitious, overarching artistic vision. Chief among these throughlines is a meditation on masculinity and its many manifestations within cultures both human and extraterrestrial.
Masculinity has always been woven into the DNA of *Predator*, dating back to the muscle-bound bravado and testosterone-charged spectacle of the 1987 original — immortalized through its exaggerated gestures, sweaty biceps, and self-destructive displays of pride. Trachtenberg’s interpretation, however, evolves that notion into something more nuanced and introspective. Both *Prey* and *Badlands* scrutinize machismo through complementary lenses: one from the human struggle for recognition within a patriarchal society, the other through the shame and alienation endured by a warrior species bound by an unforgiving code of honor.
In *Badlands*, the protagonist Dek occupies a fascinating position within Yautja culture. His small stature marks him as a failure — a being metaphorically and literally diminished in a society that venerates brute strength above all. His father, Njohrr, embodies this harsh ideology to the extreme, deeming weakness an unpardonable sin and his own offspring unfit to live. This grim dynamic mirrors the social pressures and distorted hierarchies that define the Predator civilization, creating an alien mirror to human insecurity. Simultaneously, in *Prey*, the Comanche heroine Naru confronts similar prejudice within her tribe. Although gifted, courageous, and burning with determination to hunt alongside her brother Taabe, she is constantly restrained not by capability but by gender expectations. The young men around her dismiss and undermine her ambitions, forcing her to battle both a formidable alien adversary and a rigid social structure that devalues women’s contributions. Yet, Trachtenberg cleverly reframes those traditionally “feminine” skills — foraging, tracking, healing — as vital tools in her eventual triumph, underscoring that true strength arises not from physical dominance but from intellect, empathy, and adaptability.
In both tales, arrogance and overconfidence act as shared Achilles’ heels. The Predators’ technological superiority and ritualistic obsession with the hunt often turn into liabilities. *Prey’s* feral Yautja, driven by curiosity and vanity, nearly succumbs to encounters with wild beasts such as wolves and bears before meeting his match in Naru — a striking commentary on hubris and the blindness of unchecked aggression. Similarly, in *Badlands*, Dek’s vow to reclaim his worth through a solitary kill is swiftly undercut when he crash-lands on the hostile planet Genna, where even the flora conspire against him. He learns humility the hard way, discovering that survival demands cooperation, not isolation. His unlikely companions — Thia, a damaged Weyland-Yutani synthetic, and Bud, a local creature embodying instinctive loyalty — reinforce this evolution. When Thia poses the deceptively simple question, “Who would want to survive on their own?”, it effectively dismantles Dek’s lifelong creed. By the film’s climactic act, his deed of saving Thia using Genna’s own ecosystem echoes a reversal of Predator tradition: strength born from empathy rather than domination.
The idea of community as salvation surfaces again, most notably in *Predator: Killer of Killers*, the animated installment that gleefully subverts expectations. This chapter assembles unlikely heroes — Viking warrior Ursa, American airman John Torres, and exiled shinobi Kenji — who are each pitted against their own deadly Yautja. Despite belonging to disparate eras and lacking common language, they exemplify solidarity under pressure. None survive their battles unscathed, but through teamwork they achieve fleeting victories that would have been impossible in isolation. Their eventual cooperation to escape captivity, even when forced to fight one another for the amusement of their alien captors, illustrates an unmistakable evolution in *Predator’s* philosophical core. The brutal credo of “every being for itself” gives way to a hard-earned wisdom: unity is not weakness but resilience. Moreover, *Killer of Killers* expands the mythos by revealing that the Yautja hunt not only alien warriors but anyone who has slain one of their kind — a chilling yet connective thread that binds Naru, Dutch, and Harrigan to Ursa’s fate. Ursa’s choice to sacrifice herself, entering suspended animation while aiding her comrades’ escape, epitomizes this communal transcendence.
By concluding each film on an ambivalent yet thematically cohesive note, Trachtenberg crafts a trilogy that redefines what *Predator* stories can achieve. While these endings hint at ominous futures — Kenji and Torres facing an armada of Predator vessels, or Dek preparing for an inevitable showdown with his formidable mother — what endures is their shared message. Beneath the carnage and spectacle lies an unexpected moral clarity: connection, compassion, and shared survival triumph over isolationist bravado. That thematic pivot — from glorifying the solitary hunter to honoring the strength found in companionship — signals a bold recalibration of the franchise’s ethos. It grants *Predator* a renewed narrative vitality and positions Trachtenberg’s vision as both homage and evolution, ensuring this once purely primal saga can now also be read as a meditation on what it means to belong — whether as human, machine, or alien.
As Trachtenberg’s trilogy continues to expand this universe, the possibilities ahead seem exhilaratingly open-ended. His interpretation does not abandon the pulse-pounding confrontation between hunter and hunted that first defined the series; rather, it reframes that dynamic through a lens of emotional intelligence and cultural introspection. In doing so, he has transformed *Predator* from a visceral action franchise into a surprisingly contemplative study of identity, cooperation, and the eternal tension between pride and survival.
Sourse: https://gizmodo.com/what-is-dan-trachtenbergs-predator-trilogy-about-2000683154
