Die Hard

A Christmas movie that quietly argues the worst part of killing a child is how inconvenient it is for the cop who pulled the trigger. AL POWELL SHOT A KID.  The movie doesn’t care who the kid was. Doesn’t give him a name. Doesn’t give him gravity. He exists only as an obstacle in Al’s emotional workflow. The kid exists only as a speed bump in Al’s journey back to masculinity. In a post–Tamir Rice world, this subplot feels less like fiction and more like an accidental confession. A glimpse into how America used to tell itself stories: erase the victim, center the weapon, heal the shooter. Die Hard doesn’t argue that killing was justified. It argues that killing is therapeutic. A flawless action movie. But also, a time capsule from when America thought the real casualty was a cop’s feelings. Yippee-ki-yay, blood-soaked nostalgia.