The Ringer:

The path from the hallowed 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle Predator to Friday’s Shane Black–directed The Predator—the sixth movie in the series, counting a ludicrous two-flick hookup with the Alien franchise—is fraught with chaos, wild-eyed diversions, grody overindulgence, and geysers of blood both red and fluorescent green. Sometimes these films are gross, and sometimes they are super gross. They get relatively little critical respect and always make money. Each dangles the tantalizing threat of total apocalypse, and each, to some tightly controlled degree, delivers.

If I ever had a movie franchise guilty pleasure, the Predator movies would qualify. Citizen Kane they ain’t.