Predator. Yautja. Ugly motherfucker. All of these monikers have been equally applied, at one time or another, to the creature(s) featured in at least two major motion pictures and innumerable books, magazines, and graphic novels. An undeniable testament to the enduring popularity of what would traditionally be considered the "bad guy". A foil to the more traditional hero protagonist; a challenge to be met and overcome. And often as not that is exactly what happens. The predator is defeated. The archfiend destroyed by our archetypal defender of humanity. Hurray.

Tarzan, Batman, Wolverine, and even Superman have been pitted against the alien technology and ferocious animal cunning of the yautja. Yet paradoxically, with each defeat our space-faring hunter's popularity only increases. Why? What do we see in that "mutated crab" face? What attraction within those beady charteuse eyes makes us demand more? What is it about this efficiently lethal extra-terrestrial serial killer that makes us wish, perhaps quiltily, that he he'd finally win one?

Agreed. He is an intriguing, even fascinating character. Visually and cerebrally engaging. But so was Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lector or Professor Moriarity of Sherlock Holmes fame. Even the Aliens who are so often pitted against our dreadlocked trophy hunter. Yet they fail to illicit similar sympathies (What? You do have strong associations with Hannibal? Turn off your computer and get thee to a psych ward. You are seriously throwed off). No rational, reasonable human being can possibly relate to a serial killer, yet millions of predator fans do just that. They not only relate, they identify with this character in a deep, heartfelt way.

To understand why this is, we must first understand what it is we see in the character of the predator. He is representational of many things on many different levels. Any first year psychology student tell you that what we see in the predator is, in fact, ourselves. He is the classic "savage" Moenker spoke of so eloquently. The id without restraint. The Acquisitive Child seeking, grasping, conquering, destroying. He takes what we he wants without fear of rejection or refusal. He is what we all secretly wish to be: guiltless and all-powerful; unrestrained in the exercise of our will. Nietzsche's "overman". But the cathexis is thwarted instantly by the superego. Stifled in this regard, we instead project these desires of primal fantasy upon the character of the yautja and then allow the hero protagonist (functioning as our own superego) to destroy him. Thus we repudiate our id and its secret, childlike desire for omnipotence; repressing our own latent savage heart and sublimating tese socially unacceptable impulses. Yes. That much is obvious. But like an onion there are several layers to this popular figure's attraction. Deeper still, there is a darker, more sinister image. One that begs to be explored if only to reveal something of ourselves.

The predator is, in fact, the conscious manifestation of a deeply repressed subconscious deathwish. He is Angeles Morturorum - the Angel of Death. Immolator. Destroyer. Our own frail mortality personified. A hunter (how fitting) who winnows the chaff; clears the deadwood; culls the heard. He represents our greatest fear and most sublime joy of our collective existence. His choice of prey - always the strong, never the weak - is symbological of the great tragedy of life: that no one is exempt from the grave.

The subway scene from "Predator II" is, in fact, a metaphor for a man (represented here by actor Bill Paxton's "super-cop" character) helpless against the approach of death (the yautja warrior) and against the vagaries of life (the runaway subway car) which ultimately lead to his final destruction (forcefully depicted at the end of the scene by the predator's gory trophy) despite his most valiant efforts. Paxton's character accepts his doom with characteristic elan ("let's dance!"), thus fulfilling his own deathwish which is subtly alluded to throughout the film.

Yet even in the midst of destruction the spark of creation, of life itself, cannot be denied in the shape of Maria Conchita Alonso's character's unborn child. It's presence, depicted by a tiny heartbeat, prevents the predator from taking her life. Death's seemingly relentless hand is stayed by the power of a single frail life. Magnificent! We are reminded of Shiva, the Hindu god known both as Destroyer and Creator. The predator, by this act of mercy, embodies the dichotomy of eastern philosophy. This embodiment of complimentary opposites - the Yin and the Yang - serves to communicate so succinctly the great tradjedy of life: that dying is the only accepted currency to pay for living. To live we must die; and we must die so that others may live. To continue the sacred cycle of life, death, and rebirth. So says Nietzsche, "... only where there are tombs can there be resurrections ..." The Predator, in all his glorious ferocity, represents for us (if I may be so bold) the alpha and the omega. The End, most surely, but also of a new Beginning. His promise of death is the promise of life yet unborn. We connect to him as one might connect to God, or the Tao, or the Atman. He is a force of nature. How can one not relate to such a intuitive concept?

Our deathwish springs not from any sort of guilt, or self-hate. We wish for death simply because we understand it is the debt we owe for the life we live. We have been dying since the day we were concieved. Predator is merely the final period (or perhaps an exclamation point) at the end of the paragraph of this life. He is us and we are he, but deeper still he is the symbol of our own potential fulfilled; our debt paid and a return to whence we came. To fear him is to fear yourself. To embrace him is to accept your own destiny.