The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order (Blu-rays are sorted after DVDs), by June 10, 2015. Remaining movies: 292 Days to go: 279
Movie #85: Die Hard
Man, do I love Die Hard. Perfectly paced, sharply funny and just about as timeless as you could ask for — despite the quintessentially ’80s fashions and outdated technology, the film holds up really well; it could be a period piece.
The movie starts with Officer John McClane (Bruce Willis) getting fuck-me eyes from airline attendants as he nervously flies from New York to L.A. on Christmas Eve to visit his wife and family, while receiving the valuable advice of making fists with his toes to calm his fear of flying. Innocuous, perhaps, but never suggest someone make fists with their toes in the first act to have them not end up shoeless later in that same act. Everything in Die Hard is there for a reason, absolutely nothing is wasted.
In the few minutes spent on John’s meeting with his wife Holly (Bonnie Bedelia) before she rejoins the office Christmas party and shit goes down, everything is revealed about their relationship — the tension, the hope for reconciliation hindered by pride and months-old arguments, and the arrogant jerkwad Ellis (Hart Bochner) who forcefully points out Holly’s new Rolex for a job-well-done. Hey, I wonder if that watch will come into play later?
Even the score is efficient, as it just reworks and reuses the familiar strains of “Ode to Joy” in different ways, from deep, ominous bass strings, to the flighty playfulness of a flute, to a full-on symphony orchestra, depending on the tone it needs to set.
It also can’t be said enough how crazy good Alan Rickman is in his feature film debut as “exceptional thief” Hans Gruber. Cultured and sophisticated yet a ruthless killer, Gruber sets the standard for high-class criminals everywhere. He is smart and quick at adapting to changing situations, but he also has an incredibly detailed and comprehensive plan, down to predicting the movements of the FBI, once they become involved. If it weren’t for some rogue cowboy crawling around the elevator shafts, he’d be on a beach right now, earning twenty percent.
Props also go out to Paul Gleason as uppity, useless police deputy Dwayne T. Robinson, resident ’80s schmuck William Atherton as smarmy and inconsiderate journalist Richard Thornburg, De’voreaux White as the charming limo driver Argyle, and one of the terrorists for wearing the tightest pair of sweatpants I have ever seen. But why, I ask you, has there never been a John McClane and St. Al Powell (Reginald VelJohnson) buddy cop TV series? I ask so little of you, Hollywood. Why must you disappoint me?
Actually, nothing disappoints me about Die Hard, not even the ridiculousness of a police department who scolds someone calling in a terror attack for taking up a line meant for emergencies — but only because it gives me, “No fucking shit, lady, do I sound like I’m ordering a pizza?” “Yippy-ki-yay, motherfucker” might be iconic, but the pizza line is the best.
Also, Bonnie Bedelia packs a hell of a punch.
Viable Option 