Undying Movie Classics: Die Hard

      I can't even begin to comprehend how spoiled I am when it comes to the plethora of quality cinema I have been exposed to.  Ever since I can recall, I have bathed in the warm glow of a screen, my senses delicously assaulted in various genres, themes and film speeds.  My tastes have only improved in the last decade, making me much more susceptible to the undying classics that were the last generation's blockbusters.  Now, being a broke cinephile with too much time on his hands, I have discovered something that was lost in the chasm of my mind when I didn't appreciate what I grew up on; the genesis of the all too human heroic protagonist in a wife beater, from the powerhouse that is Die Hard.
    
      This movie brings back a painful memory of not fully appreciating this pulpy masterpiece.  Quite simply, it is the Holy Grail of the steaming dung heeps that have, for the past three decades, been trying to recreate the magic that the slightly balding Bruce Willis brought to the silver screen.  I mean, how is it possible for the entirety of Hollywood's talent to have missed the most basic yet foolproof blueprint for an action movie with heart?  To be fair, there have been movies that have, for the most part, done the bare minimum to create an action movie.  Unique, multifaceted setting? Check.  Flamboyantly vulgar and foreign villain?  Sometimes even too much.  A pyrotechnics spectacle to even rival Disney World?  As evident by my scarred retinas, also check.  Yet, despite all that 50 million that was put to good use, no one has even bothered to really look at the formula.  At this point, plagiarism would be a welcome reprieve in exchange for some thin veil of quality.
     
     In rather stark contrast, Die Hard gives a sense of completion when viewing the film..  Right off the bat, we are introduced to the main protagonist; a worn down man that has an understandably big fear of flying.  With jaw clenched, he is given a tip from a friendly passenger that will help his nervousness.  This perfectly set up my feelings when watching this as to how this guy could possibly even cope with whatever impending doom he was about to stumble upon.  Ultimately, I felt just a tad distrustful of his abilities, and that made it already different from the usual fare I had grown accustomed to.  Admittedly, that is a silly thought to even consider, seeing as how it IS Bruce Willis, flaunting that smug smirk he uses in all of his usual dribble.  

     As the film continues, the familiar pieces of the puzzle start to form an invitingly commonplace affair.  I became strangely giddy when the stereotypical black sidekick comes into play, not to mention the over the top foreign baddes that plague the gigantic set peice that is Nakatomi Tower.  Speaking of which, let's take a look at one of the main characters.  Each and every nook and cranny of this bulding is seemingly utilized to its full extent.  When a scene calls for verticality, our hero is plunged down elevator shafts and an assortment of stair ways.  Yet if tension/suspense needs to be highlighted, the film shrinks the hallways and tightens up the air ducts to make us and our shit out of luck protagonist every bit disoriented.  This is thanks to the great dynamcic of the cinematography and the characters that sell every facial expression.  There's something disturbingly evocative about witnessing a sterile, controlled environement like this building be reduced down to a nightmarish hell scape,  blood spatters and bullet holes riddling the walls.  

     Quite possibly one of the main attractions is the head of this gang of german baddies, Hans Gruber.  Brilliantly played by one Alan Rickman, this is an antagonist that a multitude of other films have yearned to copy.  It's not that he is grandiose in stautre or idelas. In fact, it really boils down to him being a highly trained petty thief.  But damn it if he isn't the classiest bastard to charm me while he shoots innocent bystanders in the face.  Seriously, it's as if they wrote the movie with Alan Rickman alongside them, advising as to how much of a dick his character should be.  Suffice to say, no one has matched the calibre of his performance in any other movie of this genre for a damn long time.  
     
     Of course, the top billed talent that headlines this act is the show stealer, Burce Willis. He is the personification of the every man, albeit with slightly superior survival skills than myself.  As mentioned before, this hero has flaws; he hates flying, his marriage is going down the drain, and he has a mean bald spot, thankfully with no comb over in sight.  So, when the shit hits the fan, it comes as a pleasant surprise to see the animilistic ferocity of his character when his life is on the line.  Without spoilers, I can tell you the baddies start falling like dominos.  But it's not a rampage he goes on.  He is actually calculated in his actions, for the most part.  Rarely is he not one step ahead of Gruber and his goons.

     What gets me with this portrayal of his character is that his actions mirror my perceived intentions in the scenarios he comes across.  Every time he is seriously injured he reacts accordingly to the trauma, eventually transitioning to a visually evident look of strained determination to push through all the pain.  Already at this point this character has seperated himself from the superheroes of the genre who, under similar circumstances, just shrug off everything as minor flesh wounds.  In one particularly important scene, we see the sheer will power of our protagonist as he is forced to run barefoot across a floor covered in broken shards of glass.  Up until that point, people had never really seen a hero figure like John McClane become so vulnerable,  limping around like a wounded animal, staving off death to the last possible second.  it's in the power of this scene where we see the director's intention to involve the audience in the best way possible; the bond between the viewer's sentimentality and the character's central being.  

     Calling this film anything other than a classic is a disservice to the massive talent behind and in front of the camera.  It has solidified itself in the often diluted pantheon of 80's action cinema as the vulgar and deliciously brutal grandfather of that era, and I am all the more thankful for the exposure.  
      

     The following review is something I had previously written a few weeks ago, festering in a little red notebook I keep in my bag.  Every time I look back at my musings I cringe at some of my word choices and curse myself for not reigning in my peculiar vocabulary.  And then, with a sudden flurry of self prescribed loathing, I overlap my chicken scratchings with angry red marker stains and replace them with slightly less gaudy word choices until I reach my idea of a satisfactory compromise.  However, being the banner boy for indecisiveness, I cave in and eventually insert some indulgent quips, regardless of whether or not they add anything meaningful to my ramblings.  Nevertheless, with a sort of nail biting anxiousness, I invite you to comb over my findings and to toss any and all helpful criticism my way, so that I may eventually mull over your opinions and disregard them entirely, shortly after.  Enjoy.

      There is at least one movie in everyone's life that becomes ingrained in their minds, festering and gnawing at their previously inept knowledge of cinema.  For some, it can be boiled down to the effortless charm Mr. "Better With Age" George Clooney brings to his roles, wooing the female patrons of theaters worldwide.  Or, if your tastes embrace the rebellious at heart, the advent of the raunchy sex comedies of the early days might stir your interest, most notably the grandfather of this genre, "Animal House".  I, being a man who is expected to embrace anything with mind numbing explosions and gratuitous amounts of mammary flaunting, tend to indulge in films that embrace the slow burn of its protagonists and the moral quandaries they succumb to when I am in need of mental stimuli.  Ultimately, the one movie that I flock to in my time of solace is a little gem called "The Sting", a film that is spearheaded by a dynamic duo, consisting of Paul Newman and Robert Redford.  Re-enforced by George Roy Hill's spitfire direction and attention to period authenticity, this timeless piece of cinematic pie is the culprit in my spoiled tastes when regarding the flaccid industry that is now film.  I'm looking at you, Hollywood.
      I was an idiot when I was a kid.  Technically, that's a broad statement for anyone at that age, but it was especially true for me, considering that I overlooked this movie as another one of my mother's relentlessly boring VHS tapes, taking up my precious time to watch Space Jam for the millionth time.  Now, being a full grown arrogant and brash young adult, I have concluded that I want to be buried with this film.  I won't bother to summarize this movie, since that defeats the purpose of experiencing the effortless cadence in which this movie gallops along.  However, a little back round on the characters goes a long way in sparking any interest.  Essentially, Robert Redford plays a character named "hooker", an intelligent yet naive con man who is on a quest for revenge, using the only skill he has.  Being brash and fool hardy, he is forced to team up with the legend that is Paul Newman, also known as "Henry Gondorff", a fellow grifter that has taken on some of the biggest jobs in town, only to be reduced to a sliver of his former self after a grift gone bad.
     Even on paper, this coupling sounds like a match made in 35mm heaven, and it only gets better once these two bounce off each other.  It boggles my mind that their chemistry hasn't been harnessed in anything else, other than "Butch Cassidy", since their repertoire is what drives this flick.  In their first meeting Henry is a disheveled drunkard, much to the bemusement of Hooker.  One ice bath later, however, Henry is a clean shaven, steely blue eyed shadow of his former self.  Hooker sees this, and concedes to his expertise and knowledge, almost pleading to Henry to get back at his aggressor, a deliciously cold banker played by Robert Shaw.  Henry sees this vulnerability and caves in to his human side.  However, on closer inspection, I feel as though he is accomplishing a goal for himself that he missed when he was in his prime; a sense of purpose in his work.  Sure, he did it for the money, a perfectly serviceable reason, yet it didn't drive him like the fuel that drives Hooker.  Seeing this, Henry actually glimpses himself in Hooker, a man that is where Henry wants to be, age wise and philosophically.  I feel as though he is compelled to transpose himself onto Hooker, able to live out a strand of life he missed out on.  A second chance, in a sense.  Thinking along this line of reasoning, I find their chemistry almost self serving, since they are essentially talking to themselves, albeit Henry being more in tune to this odd prophecy than Hooker, a person who doesn't question the odd bond he has with this strangely similar man.
     Hooker, on the other hand, is unsure on a consistent basis throughout the movie, taken aback by the curve balls that come flying his way.  And yet, when it comes down to the wire, Hooker drags himself along, acting as the driving force for the audience.  He is a traditional piece of the puzzle, yet an essential one.  And, to top it off, it is shown regularly that his cunning attitude is what saves the con on multiple occasions.  Fortunately, the character is at an agreeable level of complexity for the admittedly limited range of Robert Redford.  Not to say that he is a dull actor, Far from it, in fact.  It's just that he is more favorable for his own time, when the complexities of today's Hollywood didn't put so much pressure on actor's to change themselves for our entertainment.  Method acting is a dream, for now.  Yet, it is exactly why I adore this movie.  The talent that litters this movie is completely at ease with embracing their individual egos.  They know they are stars.  They feel the eyes of the audience on them, hungry for more of their dominating presence on screen.  And they relish every second of it.
     The crew behind the film realized this when composing around this movie, so they made the logical choice of adding as little music as possible, save for a pretty little piano ditty that is strategically pinned at various points of the film, as well as other pieces with similar staying power.  By doing this, we get to soak in the tense air that envelops these characters, scene after scene.  One example is the hallmark of this film; a poker game on a speeding train.  Set up as a way to gauge the protagonist's mark and as a launching point for their big con, Paul Newman harness his own star power to crank up the collective heat.  Now, normally card games don't elicit much of a positive response from me, since they usually end up with me being a major sour puss and vowing to hit someone after losing the tenth hand.  But surround that table with expertly crafted sprinkles of humour and suggestive slivers of dread for the lead, and you have yourself one hell of a suspenseful game.  Sounds great, right?  Now imagine literally no trace of music, save the cacophony of train tracks and the rustling of cards, topped off with the obligatory train whistle at the more intsense facial closeups.  The sounds are so intoxicating that upon repeated viewings, the back round noise becomes the music itself, complimenting the aforementioned cadence of the actor's timing in dialogue.
     One last note to make before completely spoiling this gem is that the production value of this movie brings to mind the phrase, "Spared no expense".  I mean, the detailed clothing and set designs that litter this flick is just mind boggling, considering how detail to that extent usually reaches prices upwards of multiple billions of dollars in today's time.  The difference between then and now, however, is that the inorganic sets and clothing become the characters, while movies today put an unnecessary sheen on everything, as if to say that time period was an ideal period in our history.  This grievous error in replicating history is absent in this movie, where in the opening shot people and businesses are realistically shown in shambles while a privileged individual's polished shoes stroll defiantly down the dirty sidewalks, leaving a stingy residue in one's mouth.  What a way to set a fire underneath viewers and to get them involved in the film. 

     I'm terrible with wrapping up my point, so I'll just advise you to watch this movie and prepare to be spoiled.
    
    

Might as Well Make it from Scratch

     Obviously, from the looks of this tired stock format of a blog, I am new to this branch of the internet.  Although I would love to voice my highly sought after opinions to the World Wide Web regarding cinema immediately, I feel that my amateur offerings need some serious overhaul before I even attempt at making a fool of myself.  So, while I concoct a contrived method of relaying my supposed "love" of movies and anything related to it, I will inform anyone who has been unfortunate enough to stumble upon this first post to, in the future, stumble upon this page again and see if I have progressed any further into something less groan inducing.  Thanks for the consideration, and spin that movie roulette.  Terrible, I know.