“I ain’t got time to bleed,” Jesse “The Body” Ventura’s commando famously retorts in Predator, and likewise, John McTiernan’s 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle ain’t got time to waste on subtlety. The early, prolonged close-up of Schwarzenegger and Carl Weathers’ steroidal biceps as the men clasp hands encapsulates this muscular sci-fi saga, about a special ops unit that’s sent into the Central American jungle to locate a missing diplomat and winds up the prey of a camouflaged alien that hunts humans for sport. McTiernan’s second directorial effort is just about the epitome of ‘80s macho action, with human action figure Schwarzenegger kicking ass while leading a team of racially diverse (and stereotypical) juiceheads prone to spouting one-liners, posing like pro wrestlers (hence The Body’s participation), and firing machine guns with wild abandon. The racial connotations of the Predator (thanks to his dreadlocks) provide a queasy minority-monster subtext, though if that’s true, Jim and John Thomas’ story also functions as an allegorical portrait of indigenous Third World forces rising up against American might, as well as of said U.S.A. power triumphing only through the cooption of foreign tactics. Such undercurrents, however, are just about trampled underfoot by the film’s vigorous tough-guy bluster. Schwarzenegger is in prime action-icon form throughout, chomping on cigars with a gusto that suggests nothing can fell him, even as his band of merry men – which also includes the inimitable Bill Duke and his trusty chain gun “Old Painless” – are felled by a crafty extraterrestrial who, at least until Predator 2 and the misbegotten AVP spin-offs, seemed like cinema’s next great otherworldly creature.