Only one film dared to confront the twin menaces facing America during the 1980s—terrorism and aggressive male-pattern baldness—and that film is Die Hard. So it's fortunate that I'm writing about that particular movie, or something would seem to have gone terribly, terribly wrong—like an emu wearing a Stetson, or anything involving Tom Green. This fearless fly-on-the-wall documentary charts the everyday struggles of vest-wearing cop John McClane, a man who swears like a longshoreman with tourettes and who, we imagine, has real problems getting insurance coverage for any aspect of his life, since he can't seem to walk across the street to use the automatic teller without becoming involved in some sort of automatic weapon-related unpleasantness. When Alan Rickman takes John's annoying big-haired wife hostage, only one response is appropriate. But instead of sitting on the couch in his underwear, scratching himself and watching Phil Donahue, McClane improbably decides to rescue her. And the surprises don't end there! Unless you've seen any action movie made since Die Hard, in which case, they pretty much do.