Dear John:
Contrary to the above opening address, this isn't a Dear John letter, not at all. It's a real, genuine expression of affection from a viewer who has loved and followed your escapades since you first blasted onto the screen in 1988, in the first "Die Hard" movie ever made. Back then you had a crop of dark hair and your features were sharp, you sported an attitude the size of an oil rig and a mouth so filthy as to be an ecological hazard. But you were special. You were an action hero who smoked, sweated and panted, and the meager clothing on your back (mostly just a white tank top and pair of chinos) looked like they had been purchased at Woolworth's Holiday Special. But boy, could you move and what's more, you were doing it all on your own. Your specialty was beating a team of trained terrorists with nothing more than your bare fists, your worn police badge and maybe a rifle or two. Of course you got plenty pummeled in the process, which is part of the beauty of this series. But you always took the punches like a man and you had the best pained grimace in all of Hollywood.
The brilliance of the Die Hard series is that it's adamantly old-school action, and it's stubbornly YOU, John. Die Hard is all John McClane — times will change along with the cast, the directors will come and go, but you remain the one and only planet around which everything else revolves. I can't imagine you ever getting cleaned up or bending over a computer or fiddling with the keys on your cell phone and let the CG guys figure out the muscle choreography. No John, you were and still are, a real guy with credible biceps and a sizable, reliable gut. That's why we love you, even though you're not exactly the kind of guy one would invite to the house to meet your parents for dinner.