We have a talent for killing. Humans off everything from ants to elephants, and we’ve shown a special knack for killing each other. Want proof? Just thumb through a world history book, and you’ll find plenty.
But while anyone can kill, some seem like they’ve been born for it. Predator: Killer of Killers, introduces us to three of them.
Some call her the Valkyrie of the Northern Seas. But she began her life as Ursa, the daughter of a proud Norse chieftain who, when Ursa was just a girl, was killed before her eyes. The culprit: Zoran, chieftain of the Krivich. For the last few decades, Ursa has plotted bloody revenge, carving a gore-spattered swathe through Scandinavia along the way. But now, when Zoran is so close to her bloodstained fists, someone (or, rather, something) crashes the party.
In feudal Japan, two brothers once vied to be heir to their father’s armored crown. One refused to fight, but the other attacked: The more peaceful brother had to run away, ceding the crown to his sibling. But 20 years later, the father is dead and the exile returns, ready to make his brother pay. But—and you’ll notice a trend, here—something is watching, ready to make its own move.
Ensign Torres isn’t a killer. Not really. He’s a pilot—or, at least, he’d like to be. Torres is grounded at the moment, tasked with patching together a cantankerous bit of flying machinery before he’ll be allowed to take on the fighters from World War II’s Vichy France. But when he starts hearing radio chatter about “hooks in the sky,” and when he sees an otherworldly weapon that yanks hot engines straight out of the fuselage, Torres knows he must get airborne and warn the other American pilots—and fast.
All of these hunters—the headliners in three separate stories—quickly become the hunted. Prey for fearsome extraterrestrial predators, the Yautja. They’re bigger than humans are. Stronger. More technologically advanced. And, oh yeah, they can turn invisible, too. What hope do these poor earthlings have?
More than you might think.
Each of the three early narratives comes not just with its own characters, but its own hint of goodness. Ursa’s not just a fearsome warrior. She’s a mom who clearly loves her young son (even if she wants him to grow up to be a cold-hearted killer). Our exiled Japanese nobleman grows far more interested in saving his brother’s life than taking it. And Torres risks his life to save his fellow airmen (and the American fleet they’re apart of) from this strange terror in the skies.
[Spoiler Warning] But when these humans are somehow forced into a three-way deathmatch with each other—with the winner being forced to fight the big daddy of all Predators—they realize the need to work together to survive. During their forced alliance, they grow quite close, quite quickly: Ursa sees her son in young Torres. The Japanese warrior sees his brother. And while all show a willingness to risk their lives for each other, one seems especially prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.
Ursa and her war-wizened crew are devotees of the old Norse gods. “May Odin bless this work,” one says as they sail closer to their target. “May he bless our blades,” another says. We hear references to Valhalla (the Viking’s martial version of heaven). We hear references to “sorceries and hell trinkets,” and a prisoner threatens to “haunt” someone in their dreams should they die. Predators are called “demons” by a character.
The Yautja (the technical name for the hunters we see in the Predator franchise) are deeply ceremonial beings. And we’re told at the outset that the Yautja Codex talks about a tradition in which one can become “the killer of killers.” We don’t know whether this is explicitly tied to the Yautja religion.
Killer of Killers doesn’t reference that religion at all. But in the expanded Predator franchise, the Yautjas were worshiped by some cultures as gods.
When Ursa meets her own quarry, Zoran, he taunts her. “It appears your cowardice has ruined your good looks,” he says.
If the French guillotine was somehow granted sentience and given the ability to watch movies, it would see a kindred spirit in Predator: Killer of Killers: So many heads flying off so many sets of shoulders.
It’s not just heads that fly, of course. (So many!) We also see a few limbs lopped off (and a few legs are tossed into a fire). A few poor unfortunates are sliced or chopped in half (leaving some entrails hanging and leaking). And it’s not just the predators doing the damage, either: Humans inflict their own share of casualties through sword and spear. Ursa has a shield that she uses in ever-more creative ways to separate bits of body from the larger whole. Someone catches on fire. We see fields and floors covered with dead and bleeding bodies.
People get skewered with spears and swords and chains and (for lack of a better word) harpoons. They are occasionally blasted by a predator’s plasma gun or hurled into walls (both of which yield relatively quick fatalities). Planes explode and crash. A roof collapses. A dying man is pin-cushioned by arrows. Another suffers a dart to the throat.
But the predators suffer their share of physical indignities, too. They shed plenty of green, glowing blood in their own respective treks to death, and they often die in particularly gruesome ways. (One is dispatched by an anchor to the head, another is sliced apart. A third gets blown up via explosive collar.) A massive creature is killed after suffering some very grievous injuries.
Someone nearly drowns. A couple of people almost die from very dangerous falls. A third is swallowed whole by a gigantic beast. One young boy gives another a cut on the cheek, leaving a lifelong scar.
Two f-words, about seven s-words and a handful of milder profanities, including “a–,” “b–ch,” “b–tard,” “d–n” and “h—.” God’s name is misused five times.
None.
We hear plenty of name-calling, and an American soldier in World War II refers to his Vichy French adversaries as “frogs” (a derogatory slur). Someone is said to have been “born from an anus.”
The original Predator film from 1987 featured a bunch of very muscled-up action heroes and, oddly, two future governors (California’s Arnold “If it bleeds, we can kill it” Schwarzenegger and Minnesota’s Jesse “Ain’t got time to bleed” Ventura). But the real star of the film was the titular predator—a dreadlocks-wearing, mandible-using terror from outer space that used technology to turn invisible and kept human skulls and spinal cords as trophies.
That first film was bloody enough. And the franchise installments that followed (six movies, five short films—including “The Predator Holiday Special”—five video games, 10 original novels and a host of comic books) have done their upmost to add to the bloody carnage. (Yet another film is on its way before the end of the year. Predator: Badlands, directed by Dan Trachtenberg, is scheduled to be released Nov. 7.)
Some might argue that Predator: Killer of Killers—also directed by Trachtenberg—is not quite as gruesome as its forebears. It is, after all, an animated movie. Pixelated blood, some would argue, doesn’t feel quite as visceral as its live-action equivalent.
But for me, animated grotesquery feels worse. The movie turns death into literal art—leaning into slow-motion, wholesale butchery. It forces viewers to not just see a given decapitation, but introduced creative angles with which to watch and follow a given head in the sky as it swirls and spews its blood.
Killer of Killers does give us some moments of relief and inspiration, especially when the main characters unite toward the end. But that hardly justifies the gore.
More noble strands of the Yautja adhere to a strict code when they go hunting: They spare the unarmed and defenseless. They never attack children, for instance. And in a curious pro-life twist, they would be loathe to kill a pregnant female, given that another life is dependent on her. Their honor depends on following this code, and most would rather die than violate it.
But Killer of Killers has no such code, and it does not spare its viewers. And given that the film is on Hulu, plenty of children could and likely will be exposed to its excesses.
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
