Spoiled Cowardice: After 'Die Hard', Most Action Films At Best Serves as Psychological Compensation

After watching Mission Impossible, I wanted to say something, yet found myself at a loss for words. Later, I watched the well-reviewed "From the World of John Wick: Ballerina" and felt the same way. I could have left it at that—just two more popcorn filcks—but after watching Die Hard, a cinematic classic celebrated by everyone that had been on my watchlist for years, I suddenly understood what that strange feeling was: a kind of spoiled cowardice.

Before presenting my analysis, I'd like to share an experience from a gathering I attended. You might not believe it, but in just two hours, I learned more about narrative techniques than I would in two years of film school.

At the time, I was studying at a community college in Seattle. A friend introduced me to this gathering, claiming it was specifically for young people who wanted to start their own businesses. He believed I had potential as a successful young entrepreneur. Back then, I hadn't yet started studying film, and I was indeed thinking, day in and day out, about how I could follow in the footsteps of people like Jobs and Zuckerberg. I believed everything he told me, until that scene that unfolded in front of me:

"Can you become a millionaire? Say it loud!" An older man in a suit stepped down from the stage and approached a younger man who was also wearing a suit. He gripped the microphone tightly, having just finished telling the audience about how he created a sales miracle in just three months.

"Yes, I can!" The young man replied. His hunched frame betrayed quiet frailty.

"Stand up straight and tell me! Can you do it?!" The older man stepped closer, leaning in so his ear was near, and asked again.

"Yes, I can!" The young man straightened his posture and answered louder. His voice cracked slightly on the first word.

After shouting the entire sentence, he began to tear up.

"Yes, you can! You'll make it! Definitely! As long as you trust yourself!"

The older man patted him on the shoulder, then turned to the others and asked, "Tell me, can he do it?!"

"Yes!" The crowd answered in unison, loud and clear.

"Tell me, can you all do it?!" The older man raised his hand and asked.

"Yes!" The crowd roared their answer.

He repeated the question several times, each time receiving the same reply—until he stopped asking, started applauding, and everyone joined in.

The young man clapped, his gaze fixed determinedly on the older speaker. When they made eye contact again, he smiled. In that moment, he seemed to have forever bid farewell to his former self.

It wasn't until the next day that I learned it was actually a pyramid scheme. If my mother hadn't repeatedly taught me to be pragmatic and that there are no free lunches, I might have fallen for it. That experience, however, also made me realize how narrative can deceive people.

What happened that night followed a perfectly linked Hollywood narrative: 1)the speaker recounted his rags-to-riches experience (a legend waiting to be fulfilled); 2)the speaker asked another ordinary young man to tell his story (an everyman protagonist anyone could identify with); 3)the speaker led the young man to change his self-perception (the protagonist answered the call); 4)the crowd expressed approval to the young man (the protagonist's transformation was acknowledged by everyone); 5)everyone approved themselves (the ancient legend was passed on and continued).

However, this narrative had one problem: nobody expresses any doubt.

This problem wasn't fatal, which made it easy to overlook.

Returning to the issue with action films, we could find that the vast majority shared the same problem: a lack of constructive doubt. Constructive doubt wasn't ordinary worry, but critical thinking that transcended one's original cognition. When difficulties arise, worry forces people to use their existing strengths to solve problems. Doubt, however, emerged when individuals realized they could not solve a problem, forcing them to make radical changes to be reborn. In action films lacking doubt, villains might worry that the protagonist's existence hindered their plans, but they never doubt that their original plan would fail; protagonists might worry about loved ones being threatened, but they never doubt that events might exceed their expectations. Meanwhile, audiences never doubt that the ending will be tragic, because they believe the protagonist will inevitably defeat the villain who underestimated their abilities.

I had been upholding the John Wick series as the pinnacle of actions films since I fell in love with it in 2017. Back then, I was both young and arrogant, having never truly doubted myself.

The story hooked me immediately. It all started with a hitman revered as a legend by industry insiders. He wiped out an entire criminal organization over a dog, then faced even more violent retaliation due to nepotistic connections. So he killed even more people, and the cycle continued—revenge, never ending. When John Wick uttered the now classic line "I need guns, lots of guns," it carried an unspoken message that no problem existed which could not be solved by guns and bullets. Those villains who kept sending assassins after the protagonist always clung to the wishful thinking that if the bounty was high enough, they could attract assassins skilled enough to kill Wick.

No one ever experiences true doubt—neither the characters in the film nor the audience watching it.

Why? Perhaps people prefer to seek revenge rather than truly solving problems. Wick's existence intimidated those who try to solve problems with violence, comforted those who fear it, and gave those who glorify it a moral loophole—because Wick himself was the king of righteous violence. This wasn't a true victory of collective will but rather it's surrender to individual will. It's just like that gathering I attended in my sophomore year, where no one actually changed for the better in that moment. Instead, they were brainwashed. They abandoning their understanding of their true selves and all surrendering to someone who merely appeared successful.

Most action films follow this pattern, which was why my friends rarely mention action movies when it comes to films that changed their lives. They know these action films, though entertaining, can only serve as psychological placebos. However, after watching Die Hard, I realized that action films could achieve far more.

Die Hard also employs the classic Hollywood narrative but with a crucial difference—until the finale, you never would feel the protagonist acquiring the ability to solve any problem. The story follows John McClane, a police officer who visited his ex-wife in another city and encountered terrorists invading a skyscraper during a Christmas party. The terrorists took everyone hostage except him, sealed off the entire building, and blocked all signals.

Viewers quickly discovered that McClane's challenges went beyond simply breaking through the blockade. It's Christmas Day, and nobody wanted to work. As McClane finally managed to trigger the fire alarm, the terrorists easily deceived the unmotivated police officers. Though McClane didn't give up, the rescuers he struggled to call for help only made things worse( especially a self-important commander who further complicated the situation).

And so it went—McClane repeatedly found himself in situations where nobody knew what to do, forcing him to keep summoning his courage to find a way out. Interestingly, both his plans and the villains' go awry because McClane never surrendered. He persistently tried to make trouble for them, though he didn't always succeed. As for the others, including the responding police and hostages, their actions constantly swung between genuine helpfulness and hindrance. Nothing was ever truly certain.

After watching Die Hard, I didn't fantasize about being invincible like I did after John Wick. Instead, I gained a deeper understanding of human limitations. Yet McClane's never-give-up spirit remains rooted in my heart, convincing me that persistence will eventually reveal an opportunity to break through.

This, I believe, is the difference between an "excellent" story and merely a "good" one. A "good" story lets me lose myself within it, while an "excellent" story helps me better face reality.