Review: Prey (2022)

In the newest entry into the Predator franchise, Comanche warrior-to-be Naru (Amber Midthunder) must outwit and survive a frighteningly advanced predator—a solitary Yautja, plopped down into her North Plains territory for a weekend of invigorating sport hunting.

But before Naru could embark on her kühtaamia (a rite of passage for presumptive Comanche hunters), Prey had to survive a similarly harrowing gauntlet: a $71 billion corporate acquisition.

It was sometime during the writing and production of Prey that Disney gobbled up 21st Century Fox like No-Face at a country buffet—just another giant media acquisition coinciding with the official sunsetting of the Paramount Consent Decrees, which have governed distribution and exhibition rules in the film industry for over 70 years. Basically, the seismic antitrust regulations that effectively ended the Hollywood studio system are now kaput, and this comes at a time when theaters are already dangerously enfeebled by the ascension of streaming and the long term realities of the Covid pandemic.

The reason that Prey skipped theaters for a streaming debut on Hulu (or Disney+, depending on your location) is purely because of corporate maneuvering in the wake of that aforementioned acquisition. In short, Prey would have been grandfathered into a post-theater streaming deal with HBO Max—and that didn’t sit well with its new owner. Instead, Disney opted to nix theatrical distribution to bolster the Hulu library (where it owns a majority stake). 

It’s probably bad form to hijack my own review with the stultifying machinations of soulless corporate behemoths, but I am morbidly fascinated by the greedy re-monopolization of the film industry and the precipitous state of theatrical moviegoing (Maureen Lee Lenker of Entertainment Weekly argues that the current streaming landscape is just a digital form of opt-in block booking).

In any case, these board room decisions are completely detached from the creative and artistic side of filmmaking, yet they dramatically affect the livelihood of so many in the film and television industries, as well as the production and distribution of myriad projects—Prey included.

If director Dan Trachtenberg is bitter about any of this, he hides it well, focusing instead on the creative opportunities allowed by his film’s stripped down premise. Prey sheds some of the series’ canonical baggage while getting back to the primal appeal of the 1987 original, casting it onto a new canvas: the Great Plains territory of 18th century Comanche Natives.

Together, Trachtenberg and DP Jeff Cutter bring the same cinematographic panache they brought to 10 Cloverfield Lane—this time in a setting that allows for (indeed, calls for) an impressive cinematic sweep. The film was shot in Alberta, Canada, on Stoney Nakoda land, and DP Cutter does a good job of letting the jaw-dropping landscape “speak for itself,” using naturalistic lighting and large format anamorphic lenses for a sense of scale (and what Cutter calls their “Sergio Leone Western standoff shots”). Prey is a beautiful movie, and it’s a shame that profit-motivated fuckery robbed us of the big screen experience.

In terms of cast and setting, much has been made of its representation of gender and Indigenous culture—mostly for the right and good reasons, and in some cases for the inanely stupid. Indigenous actors comprise much of its cast, and Amber Midthunder makes history by playing the first Indigenous female action hero (a flawed but intelligent would-be hunter, neither Pocahontas nor Mary Sue). 

The efficacy of Prey as colonialist allegory is in its simplicity, obvious but not encumbering. Before Naru runs head first into the invasive presence of French trappers, she mistakes their brutal handiwork for the sport of the mysterious predator. The parallel between colonizer and off-world hunter isn’t hard to parse, and the enthusiastic bloodletting still gives franchise fans what they came for (while exacting a measure of karmic justice).

Producer Jhane Myers belongs to both the Comanche and Blackfeet tribes, and her presence is felt in the attention paid to the history and culture that underpins the story and its characters. The surprisingly emotional score by Sarah Schachner is at times both personal and expansive, and it is enhanced by the percussion and wind instruments of Pueblo musician Robert Mirabal. In short, Prey approaches the historical Indigenous experience with respect and care—a prerequisite that Hollywood has long neglected.

While I loathe to give the mouth breathers any oxygen whatsoever, I will say this about Prey’s minor social media backlash (that you may or may not have noticed depending on what corners of the internet you inhabit). In fact, I’ll speak directly to the guilty parties as slowly and clearly as I can: if you use “woke” as a reactionary pejorative, you are entering the cultural conversation disingenuously, and your hee-haw takes are almost entirely worthless. Go have a seat at the kids table, the adults are trying to talk.

Anyway.

Prey is not without its faults. The combination of practical effects and VFX works pretty well in regards to the predator (Dane DiLiegro, embodying the beautifully redesigned hunter) but scenes of other CG animals tend to disrupt the narrative immersion. And while the attention to period detail is thoughtfully done, aspects of the art direction and costume design don’t feel as “lived in” as they might—the production design is at times almost too slick for its own good, stopping just short of fully inhabited verisimilitude.

As for plotting and character, the representation is refreshing but the characterization feels familiar. The central self-realization of Naru is satisfying but predictable (her triumphal arc is never seriously in doubt), and the script in general has its clumsy moments.

In other words, Prey breaks new ground while feeling simultaneously conventional in its bones. Audiences have responded favorably to Naru and her brother Taabe (Dakota Beavers) not because they aren’t archetypes (they are) but because here—finally—are underdogs in a place traditionally reserved for someone else (if not White and male then certainly not Native and female). The script is not terribly elegant, but it understands the assignment: the most dangerous game, experienced through a new perspective.

Lest it go unsaid, the kills here fucking rip, and that does a lot to iron out some of the narrative wrinkles. For some, that alone will be enough.

A final word on the flaws and strengths of Hulu’s new biggest ever premiere: another way that Prey made history is in its first ever full Comanche dub, recorded by its Native cast. The English language version of the movie is inferior for two important reasons. First, the clumsiest lines of English dialogue are significantly smoothed over by the Comanche dub, and secondly (this is a big one) it seems deeply and uniquely self-sabotaging to tell a triumphantly Native story in the language of the colonizer. 

Linguistic imperialism has been a destructive force in the Native American diasporic experience for hundreds of years, and while an English script may be more palatable to some viewers, it also threatens to fracture a diegesis that otherwise attempts (successfully, it seems) to do right by its Indigenous cast and culture. The Comanche dub is the next best thing to a full Native script, and undoubtedly the best way to experience the biggest streaming horror hit of the summer.