Where Have You Gone, John McClane?1

by Matt Dunbar

While the holiday season provides an endless bounty for Sinbad fans the world over, action movie nerds such as myself loathe the winter solstice and its attendant festivities. Despite the perfect Christmas-themed taglines for a Dolph Lundgren vehicle (“This Christmas, Earth has no time for peace…”), December usually means a dry spell for protracted car chases, overwrought explosions, and cheesy one-liners delivered with Central European accents.

Thankfully, there is one historical exception to this holiday action drought. Alongside George Bailey’s exuberant dash through Bedford Falls and Ralphie’s ill-fated target practice, nothing evokes the yule-tide spirit more than the sight of Alan Rickman’s flailing arms as he falls to his death off Nakatomi Towers. With due apologies to Lethal Weapon loyalists, the first Die Hard is the best Christmas movie to ever incorporate cocaine, automatic gunfire and lots of dead East Germans.

Die Hard occupies a special place in the hearts of action-movie geeks for several reasons. Although released more than twenty years ago, it is still the standard-bearer when it comes to the one man vs. evil group of hostage takers genre. With the exception of the abysmally crappy sequel (not directed by the very underrated John McTiernan), the franchise has produced reliably entertaining action scenes, funny dialogue and swift-moving but coherent storylines. I have argued with friends many times that Die Hard with a Vengeance is pound for pound the greatest movie ever made. For all its merits, The Godfather didn’t have Samuel Jackson swearing, a hot Jeremy Irons Eastern-bloc sex scene, or a SAT word problem in the middle of it.

But most of all, the Die Hard franchise is beloved by the action literati for one reason: John McClane. A shit-talking NYPD officer with no real impulse to save the world other than the fact that no one else is competent enough to do it, McClane is a uniquely relatable anti-hero in the fact that he is very aware of the risks he is undertaking and understandably pissed off that he has to take them. By no means would you describe McClane as the strong, silent type – he simply bitches too much.

Estranged from his wife and kids, openly disliked by his coworkers and superiors, and in the third film angrily hungover, McClane’s depressingly deteriorating private life stands apart from those of other action heroes who would have perfect careers and families (if only terrorists had not kidnapped their wife). Despite McClane’s repeated heroics, you know his life will continue to suck ass even after Jeremy Irons’ helicopter is blown out of the sky in Canadian airspace.

McClane’s vulnerability – both physical and emotional – sits at the heart of his appeal. At the end of any one of the four Die Hard movies, Bruce Willis looks incredibly fucked up – dazed, limping, wincing, and always bleeding profusely. Moreover, when either plotting to deceive Alan Rickman with a bulletless gun or storming Jeremy Irons’ getaway boat, McClane screws up and screws up often. His makeshift plan goes awry, he misses his target, he loses a fistfight. Yes, he always ends up surviving and killing the bad guy. But he goes through a haphazard hell to do so.

Sadly, Hollywood has grown less and less enamored of the wry, bitter, sweat-soaked and likely awful-smelling archetype that Willis perfected. Instead, the industry and viewing public have shifted toward a new breed of anti-McClane action hero: muscle-bound protagonists who have somersaulted with the precision of a Romanian gymnast well past stoicism into ass-kicking robot mode.

These new action heroes, or “Bourne-o-bots” as I like to call them, may be much more proficient in landing a punch to a pressure point or hitting their target with a sniper rifle from another continent, but they’re much less capable of delivering a well-timed “fuckhead” to a menacing villain. Laconic, one-note, and focused only on the task at hand, some of the best examples of “Bourne-o-bots” include Liam Niesson in Taken, Adrien Brody in the latest Predator incarnation, and Denzel Washington in Man on Fire.

The tyranny of the “Bourne-o-bots” has lasted for nearly a decade now, and has extended into this holiday season as well. In the movie Faster, the ex-con protagonist played by Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is so utterly devoid of personality that it was only midway through the movie I was fully convinced he didn’t have Asperger’s.

He doesn’t utter a single sentence for the first fifteen minutes beyond “Where is the exit?” Speaking in a pained monotone for the entire film, Johnson is so singularly focused on avenging the death of his brother that he simply doesn’t have time to crack a joke, let alone a smile or any other facial expression that deviates from “You have wronged me. Now it’s murder time, bitches.” His character is so lacking in personality that he doesn’t even have a name and is referred to only as “Driver” (Note: no other major character has a name as well, but its especially fitting for Johnson).

From his expert faculty with a handgun to shoulders the size of my thighs, there is nothing remotely relatable about Johnson’s performance. Which is not to say it’s his fault. If you’ve watched any of his prior films or Conan interviews, Johnson is a naturally charismatic and charming actor whose stardom unfortunately coincided with the rise of subdued, one-dimensional action hero machines. If I was Johnson, I’d be calling everyday to see if Aaron Sorkin is finally desperate enough to write the sequel to Walking Tall.

Although its tough to specify when exactly and for what reason “Driver” supplanted Mr. McClane as action hero de jour, the easy explanation lies in the impish blue eyes and perfectly constructed jaw line of Matt Damon. The success of the Bourne trilogy, of which I’m also a major fan, unfortunately set the dangerous precedent of a popular action hero without a sliver of personality. Of course, Jason Bourne had good reason not to make snarky pop culture references or endearingly self-deprecating comments: he had amnesia. But Hollywood, in its infinite wisdom, ignored that fact and quite predictably reduced the innovative Bourne movies to the following lifeless formula: well-chiseled actor + four months Aikido training + handheld camera = box office gold.

This is not to blame Matt Damon entirely for the demise of lovable action heroes. Perhaps Schwarzenegger, Stallone, and even Willis himself brought the archetype too close to the point of caricature in the 1990s with shitty dialogue, shittier plots and sub-par acting. From Ochocino to Kim Kardashian, pop culture is constantly inundated with substanceless flash and unjustified flamboyance. Maybe the viewing public was simply tired of all the unnecessary bullshit that accompanied action movies, craving someone to just get the job done without making a huge deal about it.

Still, despite of how adroit he is at killing someone with a ballpoint pen, there’s something about Jason Bourne that’s lacking. The normal human response to being repeatedly attacked by several trained assassins should involve tons of sweat, swearing and blood. That’s why this holiday season, like each one before it, John McClane will queued up right after Clarence earns his wings and the Bumpus’ dogs ruin the bird. Christmas is just not Christmas without a yippie-ki-yay mother fucker.