Love Bites: Arnie, Aliens, Action

“Dillon! You son of a bitch!” An arm wrestle ensues. “What’s the matter? The CIA got you pushin’ too many pencils?” 

When Arnold Schwarzenegger utters those lines with his guttural Austrian emphasis, the audience in the vintage cinema erupts. Predator (1987) remains a cult classic, and will always have a corner of my heart for its camp and nostalgic air, and genuinely engaging steroid-fuelled narrative. 

The film follows a US special operations team in the jungle somewhere in South America. They’re led by Arnie’s character named Major 'Dutch' Schaefer. One by one, the team is picked off by an anthropomorphic alien that camouflages with the jungle. 

Arnie is at his most muscle-ballooning glorious. The late great Carl Weathers is also a muscle-bound stud. In fact, every character in this slice of testosterone of a film is in peak physical condition. You might even, like me, find the film deeply homoerotic: the glistening sweat; the butch camaraderie; the ​​slow, methodical handling of weapons before an ejaculation of gunfire and explosions. 

“You are one ugly son of a bitch,” Arnie says, lathered in mud, and we all cheer again. 

I first watched Predator alongside new friends in my first year at university, with a few cheap beers and Doritos crumbs scattered on the floorboards. At 19, I was discovering who I was away from childhood friends and the rigidity of secondary school. I barely understood my developing personality let al,one my own seemingly alien-like adult body. And so, maybe, there was something comforting in the alien, somewhat absurd world of Predator. But my whole life lay ahead and I could take it in any direction I wanted to. This moment is a gorgeous, rose-tinted memory of our own sort of camaraderie and the excitement of self-discovery. I wish I could watch Predator for the first time again – but, for now, the cinema and its undying Predator fans are enough.