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Die Hard is often cited as the Greatest Action Movie Ever Made. There are few films to compete for that title, especially when so many disregard finer points like acting and dialogue. These are hallmarks of John McTiernan’s 1988 classic. It was also noted for creating a hero that was fallible, a fresh idea in a genre that gave us cartoonish saviours like John Matrix and John Rambo, who could obliterate entire armies without so much as a skinned knee. This John, with the more likely surname McClane, barely makes it to the end credits alive. By that point, he’s bloodied, bruised and barely conscious. He’s the anti-Schwarzenegger.

It’s safe to say that McTiernan was critiquing the action formula with Die Hard, effectively biting the hand that fed him. His previous film was the testosterone-addled Predator (1987), also considered a masterpiece by some. It’s still a supremely entertaining popcorn flick, but nothing more than that… almost a warm-up. Die Hard is the real thing, and the closest you’re ever going to get to a perfect Hollywood thriller. It’s also one of the funniest R-rated shoot-em-ups in history. If you were to stand outside a cinema screening Die Hard, you’d swear the audience was watching a comedy. For every spent shell, shard of glass or bloody squib, there’s an expletive-ridden retort performed by an actor best known for a sitcom, and a serious British thespian making his silver screen debut.

Amidst the gory gun battles, McTiernan also finds the time to comment on everything from sensational media coverage to the corporate greed of the 80s. On top of that, Die Hard was a Christmas film released in July. This is a pretty strange movie when you get right down to it.

Perhaps it’s appropriate that this middle-finger to the action films of yesteryear began life as one. The script was originally intended as Commando 2, the sequel to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s infantile one-man-army extravaganza. McTiernan would have directed the film, but the Governator withdrew from the idea. The director retooled the project, offering the lead to every Who’s Who in 80s action cinema. All of them turned the script down. The last person anyone ever expected to win the part was the dude trying to get into Cybill Shepherd’s pants on Moonlighting. The man who taught us to respect ourselves.

Bruce Willis was the inspired choice in a sea of uninspired choices. Just imagine the opening scene as if it was Schwarzenegger as McClane. His co-passenger on the flight to Los Angeles imparts a bit of wisdom that suggests there really is something to defeat jet lag. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a long flight, but when I do, I’ll be sure to “make fists with my toes” afterwards. Arnie would have reacted to this golden nugget with a blank expression, and have no doubt delivered a “witty” comeback. Willis, with his blue-collar attitude, takes it in his stride and even gives it a go… a first indication that jet lag and stress is something McClane knows very well. Willis is just more convincing as a supposed Everyman than Schwarzenegger, although it’s fun to imagine the big oaf stepping off the plane and bemoaning, “fucking California.”

It’s therefore expected that this salt-of-the-earth NYPD cop faces a threat that will truly test him, making this is a David and Goliath battle of wits. Whoever had the idea to cast stage actor Alan Rickman as thieving terrorist Hans Gruber deserves a lifetime achievement award. Cast against the all-American Willis, the droll Rickman managed to turn what should have been a run-of-the-mill genre exercise into something damn near operatic. And while this is, on the surface, an opulent game of cat and mouse, the film is also a love story. A love story between a movie studio and a building. Bear with me.

Screenwriters Steven E. de Souza and Jeb Stuart based their script on a novel by Roderick Thorp, who achieved success with best-seller The Detective in 1966. The sequel, Nothing Lasts Forever (1979), was inspired by a dream he had after watching Irwin Allen’s disaster classic The Towering Inferno (1974). He imagined a man being chased through a skyscraper by goons with guns and crafted the idea to fit his Detective character, Joe Leland. A cursory look at the synopsis reveals the novel’s clear ties to Die Hard:

Leland is visiting the Klaxon Oil Corporation’s headquarters in LA, where his daughter, Steffie Leland Gennaro works. After he arrives, a German terrorist team led by Anton “Tony” Gruber takes over the building. Leland remains undetected and fights off the terrorists one by one, aided outside by LAPD Sergeant Al Powell (played in the film by a rotund Reginald VelJohnson). The similarities to Die Hard are obvious, with only superficial changes: Tony became Hans, the daughter became a wife, Holly McClane (Bonnie Bedelia), and the oil corporation was ousted by Japanese conglomerate Nakatomi (in reality, the newly completed Fox Plaza). The director sets up the location well, introducing it via a colourful limousine ride with Argyle (De’voreaux White) that tells us everything we need to know about McClane. He’s clearly having problems with the missus, he’s got a “backlog of scumbags” to deal with in New York, and trying to get along with people frustrates him. This is a man who attracts trouble on a daily basis.

His arrival at Nakatomi continues the macho characterisation with McClane butting heads with Hart Bochner’s coked-up yuppie Ellis (a reference to Bret Easton Ellis?), as McTiernan dutifully lays out the geography. It’s always important to know your surroundings in an action movie. Set pieces tend to become incoherent when the battle ground isn’t clearly defined, so a good portion of the opening is devoted to establishing this monument of glass and steel, which suit Mr. Takagi (James Shigeta) informs us still has “several floors under construction.” A company in the midst of setting up shop is certainly more vulnerable than one long-in-the-tooth with tightened security. It’s therefore no surprise that Gruber assumes control of the building with ease… the logic of this movie is air-tight. McTiernan cuts between McClane having a domestic spat with his wife and Gruber’s team, who unbeknownst to the party-goers upstairs, are slowly severing the building’s connection to the outside world. It sets in motion a feeling of anxiety that doesn’t let up for the proceeding 90 minutes.

This isolation is also the key to why the original Die Hard works as well as it does: McClane doesn’t want to be the hero, at least not to this extent, and he is forced to save the day (and his wife) because he has no means of escape. It is only when his attempts at calling the cavalry fall flat that he decides to take on these “terrorists” single-handed. The subsequent sequels have lost sight of this important character trait. This iteration of McClane would have bailed during Live Free or Die Hard and let the professionals do their job. He’s a good cop with a strong moral code, but the last thing he wants to do is kill a load of people… even if he is sharply efficient at it. What makes this characterisation even better is the fact that he takes on his mission sporting a vest and no shoes, giving him a sizeable disadvantage. The screenwriters throw all manner of obstacles in McClane’s path, never venturing too far outside the realms of plausibility (well, except for that climactic leap off the roof perhaps). These close calls are often timed beautifully, such as McClane’s nail-biting tumble down a ventilation shaft, or his encounter with an oversized fan. He’s one hell of an underdog, which is precisely why he resonates with viewers and why we follow him to the bloody end. His atypical vulnerability only ratchets up the suspense. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t deliver the odd wisecrack to lighten the mood.

Having set-up their hero’s imperfections, McTiernan and the screenwriters proceed to make those outside look stupid in comparison. Headed by the ridiculous Deputy Chief Dwayne T. Robinson (The Breakfast Club‘s Paul Gleason), the police response allows the director to inject some much-needed levity into the film when things get nasty. And Die Hard is definitely nasty. After more than a decade of watered-down PG-13 rubbish, it’s sort of bracing when you see bullet hits in a movie that look realistic, and deaths that might be considered overkill now (my favourite being the moment when a henchman’s legs are blown out from under him, sending his head through a sheet of glass). The violence is so convincing that the humour is needed to stop it from becoming dour, and while LA’s finest (and later, the FBI) are depicted as unrealistic fools, the writers do allow McClane one positive connection to the outside world – Al Powell. He’s sort of McClane’s opposite: a good man at heart with a chequered past, who was also in the wrong place at the wrong time. What’s clever, is that this friendship is developed over walkie-talkies, leading to several sequences that bring unexpected warmth to a cold film, such as Powell’s heart-felt “confessional” to McClane about a dark moment from his past. Their situation and contrasted struggles almost make the experience a cathartic one for the characters.

Compounding matters is the fact that the good guys face a threat that is smarter than all of them (“benefits of a classical education”). Hans Gruber has more or less become the definitive Euro villain because his vast intelligence is matched by his ruthlessness. He’s ahead of the game at every turn, and quick to eradicate anyone who gets in his way. Gruber goes about his scheme with supreme confidence, so much so that it’s hard not to secretly root for him. I defy you not to smile when he finally breaks into Nakatomi’s vault… he’d have pulled it off if it wasn’t for that pesky detective. Rickman was born to play Gruber and walks away with the film, such as the famed sequence when he finally comes face-to-face with his prey. Caught red-handed by McClane, the crafty bastard pretends to be a hostage and feigns a Californian accent. This is a man who literally rolls with the punches – when Gruber notices that his nemesis is barefoot, he orders his cronies to “shoot the glass,” which leads to Willis’ best scene in the picture. McClane, his feet shredded and his outlook bleak, tells Al to find his wife if he dies. For a brief moment, the bravado is dropped and Willis reveals that he was once a fine dramatic actor. I, for one, miss this more human approach to the character.

The cast is so good that you frequently forget that you’re watching a far-fetched genre film, even when the archetypes are obvious. The bodies pile up frequently, and it all builds to an explosive conclusion that directly references the film’s debt to The Towering Inferno. Die Hard gives us exactly what we want without ever insulting our intelligence. From top-to-bottom, this is a tightly conceived blast of escapism that is as laudable for its technical credits as it is for its sheer entertainment value. And I haven’t even mentioned the film’s other fine attributes, such as Jan de Bont’s claustrophobic cinematography, or Michael Kamen’s instantly recognisable score. You know a film is a masterpiece when you never run out of complimentary things to say about it.

I’ve seen Die Hard so many times that it’s kind of impossible to view it objectively. No screening over the years has revealed a significant flaw, however, making this the rare action movie that truly deserves its reverential following. Die Hard is as good now as it ever was, standing tall as that wondrous example of what can be done with uninspired material and actors better than the genre deserves. Sometimes, all the right pieces just fall into place…



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Space had seldom seemed dangerous before Ridley Scott applied his no-nonsense approach to this most celebrated of creature features. In reality, the cosmos holds infinite peril; its darkest reaches unfathomable, and its scope reminding us that our place in the universe is small. What lies ahead for us to discover, and will we be happy when we get there?

Alien might have the visual splendour of 2001 (1968), but its leagues removed from the giddy exploration of space that Stanley Kubrick’s sterile classic provided. Scott’s world is formed in reality; a grimy, hostile existence that smacks of truth. The travellers here don’t go on a pleasant adventure like the fairytale of Star Wars (1977), and they find no enrichment in the discovery of other life-forms like the crew of the Enterprise. The comparison is rammed home in a seemingly simple sequence where the inhabitants of the film’s primary vessel, the battered tug Nostromo, land on that fateful planetoid. They don’t fly in gracefully like a hundred other sci-fi films. The descent is difficult and fraught with problems. Who knew that internal logic such as this would transform what was to be a Roger Corman-produced B-movie into one of the greatest studio genre pictures ever released?

Alien burst to life when down-on-his-luck screenwriter Dan O’Bannon decided to make a “nasty” version of his cult 1974 film Dark Star (reportedly co-directed by himself and John Carpenter, who took sole credit). The infamously ambitious film school project grew so large that it became a theatrical release. It failed with audiences but has left a lasting mark on SF writers, even helping to inspire genre parody Red Dwarf. With help from his writing partner, Ronald Shusett, O’Bannon hatched the plot of his extra-terrestrial opus: Seven astronauts, or “truckers in space,” are reawakened from hypersleep on the long voyage back to Earth by a distress beacon of unknown origin. On Company orders, they land on the inhospitable LV-426 (named in the sequel) to check it out. They come across a derelict alien craft, and an otherworldly killing machine manages to stowaway on the ship.

At this point, O’ Bannon was stuck. He had no novel idea for how the alien would board the Nostromo. It was actually Shusett who suggested that one of the crew members be impregnated by a parasite and “give birth” to a razor-toothed predator when the ship was in orbit. This one idea is what made Alien a revolutionary spin on the tired monster movie formula. It was what also attracted producers Gordon Carroll, David Giler and Walter Hill to the film, who recognised the scene’s power right then and there. Giler and Hill completely retooled the script, of course, taking it from exploitation schlock to studio bait in the wake of Star Wars. To this day, their involvement in the film can’t be underestimated, especially when they had the foresight to choose a British helmer of commercials to direct the film.

Scott is largely regarded as a visually oriented filmmaker, but he understood the importance of casting a picture correctly. It’s easy to forget how great the Alienensemble is, given the peerless production work on show. Tom Skerritt, as the Nostromo’s detached Captain Dallas, should be the film’s lead by default but is killed off long before the film ends. Parker (Yaphet Kotto) and Brett (Harry Dean Stanton) are disgruntled engineers who we miss when their time comes. Lambert (Veronica Cartwright) is a nervous wreck and therefore the audience’s reflection. Kane (John Hurt) is the unlucky host to the titular beast. Ash (Ian Holm) is the twitchy science officer obsessed with their discovery. And Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) is the tough, resourceful survivor who became an icon by virtue of the fact she was a female in a male-dominated genre (although there were precedents before this). The casting is perfect from top-to-bottom, and helped to give the project some credibility. These people feel like real Average Joe’s tossed into a situation they can’t hope to comprehend.

The beauty of Ripley being the icon of the series is the fact that she isn’t the central character of Alien. None of them are, really. The events of the film help shape her into the woman we ultimately know in the sequels, but we don’t follow her until the climax. Scott is also clever in the way he introduces his characters. When they awake early in the film, the doomed Kane is the first to rise from his slumber; the camera seems to favour him over the others, suggesting that he is the protagonist. But no – he’s the first to wake, and the first to die. We only assume the Captain will take command, but Dallas isn’t made for the job. Maybe the strong-willed Parker will suffice? Or the know-it-all Ash, who at least seems to understand the alien better than anyone else. Again, audiences were wrong. Instead, Ash turns out to be an antagonistic android; a “plant” by the Company to ensure that the Nostromo brought an alien specimen home. The crew is expendable. This rather prescient take on evil corporations protecting their interests is brilliant, and provided a plot thread for the sequels to chew on (as well as robot prep for the director’s follow-up, Blade Runner). It allows Scott to create an inescapable feeling of claustrophobia – if the alien is worrying, what about the threat that awaits them when they get home? The unnamed corporation, later christened Weyland-Yutani, hangs over the narrative like a spectre.

If there’s a reason to admire Alien, it is for the incredible photography by Derek Vanlint, rather than the story and characters (although, they’re both well above other films of their ilk). The visuals are still breathtaking, with some of the finest art direction ever seen in a science fiction film. That’s down to Scott’s amazing eye for detail and the still first-rate designs by Ron Cobb and H.R. Giger. The former would give an authenticity to the Nostromo, a ship constructed in real-world logic, while the Swiss surrealist would make the alien surroundings as nightmarish as possible. Giger’s design of the creature could be the greatest monster in Hollywood’s considerable canon. The “xenomorph” is as beautiful as it is frightening; a biomechanoid vision of hell. The alien has never been scarier out of Scott’s hands, often shot in darkness and glimpsed in piecemeal to hide the “man in suit” effect. So much of the creature’s intensity is created in our minds.

Scott winds up the tension and paranoia to bursting point, leading to a final 20 minutes of sweat-soaked delirium as Ripley fights for her survival, the last occupant of the Nostromo. When she despatches the beast and succumbs to hypersleep, little does she know that her reprieve will be temporary (say, 57 years). As the credits roll, we’re both exhausted and excited by the possibilities. Alien is a film that leaves you with questions. So many questions. Where did the alien craft come from? It wasn’t indigenous to LV-426. Who was the fossilised “Space Jockey” left to die at the derelict’s controls? And just what is the xenomorph? Smart money says that the creature is a higher being’s form of biological warfare. Some of these questions may be answered in Scott’s forthcoming “prequel,” Prometheus. I just hope he doesn’t answer too much.

Are there flaws to a film as majestic as Alien? If one were to pick at it, you could say the pace was languid to modern eyes, but the slow crawl is justified given the power of the pay-off. It also doesn’t shock the same way it used to, the victim of three decades of plundering in sequels and rip-offs. But the original still manages to unsettle – the one great innovation at its core, that explosion of entrails, is an evergreen. Not only that, but 33 years later, very little about it has dated – the sign of a true masterpiece.

Alien burrows under your skin and leaves images and moments that you’ll never forget. If Jawsmade people scared to go in the water, then Alien might make astronauts think twice about venturing into the unknown…



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Pulp Fiction is a true celebration of cinema. It is the outcome of a mind who saw The Wild Bunch as a child, and one who worked as an usher at a porno theatre when he was sixteen. Quentin Tarantino has never lived for anything but film, and his second feature is well and truly the work of an ex-video rental clerk who spent his time going through the shelves. He can’t help but fill-out his films with reminders of pictures past and present. If cinema pastiche can be qualified as a genre, then Pulp Fiction is the number one entry. It also firmly added the term “Tarantino-esque” to the critical lexicon; though it is a very cine-literature work with allusions as far-reaching as Dashiell Hammett and the French New Wave, it is very much the logical progression of 1992′s Reservoir Dogs.

Both films open in sun-drenched LA coffee shops with shady individuals, although rather than a group of sharply dressed hoods, we find a couple. Thieves “Honey Bunny” (Amanda Plummer) and “Pumpkin” (Tim Roth) are in love and clearly bad news. They are an archetypal Tarantino creation; his scripts for True Romance and Natural Born Killers focused on a similar partnership. The dialogue fires and the seeds are sewn for a labyrinthine narrative of interconnected stories. (Listen carefully in the opening scene, and you’ll hear the distinctive tones of Samuel L. Jackson.) It already seems like a riff on his debut. But rather than tip the waitress and saunter out into the car park to a rocking golden oldie, Honey Bunny and Pumpkin proceed to stick up the joint. Tarantino is honing his auteurist notions as well as playing with our expectations. Following a wave of foul language, the titles kick-in to the sound of Dick Dale’s “Misirlou” and his gift as a filmmaker is immortalised.

Though he has attained his fair share of detractors in the last twenty years, there is little doubt in my mind that Pulp Fiction is a masterpiece. It moves like a dream. Pulp is two-and-a-half hours long but no one ever calls it slow. Dialogue and music power the film, not the plot(s). It’s all there in our introduction to hitmen Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winnfield (Jackson). The oft-quoted “Royale with cheese” conversation still works because it informs us about the characters. We know these people before they unload their pistols on the pitiful Brett (an uncredited Frank Whaley). There’s some plot talk, sure, but mostly they’re just Average Joes doing a job. Hitmen are stock roles we’ve seen many times in Hollywood gangster films, but that knowing dialogue gives them an extra dimension. They’re culturally aware, and while you could argue that Quentin’s “natural” scripting is a little larger-than-life, it sounds right coming from Jackson and Travolta. Has anyone ever delivered his verbal sparring better?

Another thing that makes it a stylistic progression is the non-linear narrative. It was there in Reservoir Dogs but Pulp is his definitive use of the form. Like all of his films, there are vignettes or “chapters.” Q.T. has always been quick to point-out that his work shares a kinship with novels, and you can clearly see the ties to hard-boiled literature throughout. His work isn’t composed of flashbacks, as many wrongly call them; these chapters are a way of telling the story so that it makes the biggest possible impact. There’s a lot about Pulp Fiction that is conventional, and the fractured sequencing of events had been done long before it (see Citizen Kane or Rashomon), but no one uses a non-linear structure as well as Tarantino. It embellishes the shopworn Noir elements, and allows the film to be free in the choices it makes and to get as unpredictable as possible. This is a film where the coke-snorting “femme fatale,” Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman), refers to fellow addict Vincent as a square, only for the shape to magically appear on-screen. A film where the characters go to a 50′s-themed restaurant and dance the batusi to land a trophy. A film that uses old-fashioned rear-projection shots in driving scenes just because it can. Pulp Fiction is a Godardian romp and it’s difficult to imagine why some stuffy critics got so hung-up on the bloodshed.

Importantly, for Daily Mail readers at least, Pulp is a violent film. A promise from any of the director’s movies, it seems. But after almost two decades of upping the ante, this classic seems somewhat restrained. Tarantino’s zeal as a craftsman makes every moment hit hard, although some will be surprised at how much is implied on revisits. Brett’s death on the first go-around is composed only of close-ups of Vincent and Jules as they fire their weapons. Or what about the infamous incident with Marvin (Phil LaMarr)? The perpetually unlucky Vincent accidentally blows the poor bastard’s head clean off, but we don’t get a clear shot of the bullet entering his skull, just the Manga-level spray of blood that splatters the car windshield. It’s too over-the-top to be taken seriously. Imagine that scene playing out in the Kill Bill films and you can see how refined Pulp Fiction is and how much further the director has taken his Gonzo style over the intervening years.

Also look at the scene in which Vincent finds the OD’ing Mia on her living room floor. Due to a crafty bit of exposition early on, she has confused Vincent’s “Bava” heroin for cocaine. She’s his boss’s wife and Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames) wouldn’t let Vince off the hook for that (we already know what he did to that Samoan for merely touching his wife’s feet). In a shining example of Tarantino’s ability to mix humour with pathos, the terrified hitman speeds her over to his dealer’s for a shot of adrenaline. Lance (a great Eric Stoltz) can only scream and shout with his wife, Jody (Rosanna Arquette), as they argue over who gets to plunge the needle into Mia’s heart. It’s still hilarious, although Q.T. builds the tension like a seasoned pro. Due to the late Sally Menke’s fantastic editing, we think we see the moment of penetration but we don’t. No matter how many times I see it, it still has the desired effect.

Such moments have branded the film as sadistic viewing, but Pulp Fiction is a very redemptive picture that offers hope to these despicable characters. The story following Butch Coolidge (Bruce Willis) is proof that Tarantino wanted to do more than line the film with shock content. On orders from Mr. Wallace, Butch was meant to go down during a fight but actually killed his opponent. When the big man finally catches up with Coolidge, the pair are inadvertently held captive by a crooked cop and a gimp, in what can safely be called a tribute to Deliverance. Butch gains the upper-hand and a chance to escape, but instead of leaving Marsellus to a grim demise, he does the right thing and saves his life. This shot at redemption is also shared by Jules, who, after a bout of “divine intervention,” decides to quit his life as a crime enforcer. Vincent dismisses his conclusion and ultimately pays the price. Who said Tarantino isn’t a moral filmmaker?

What’s left but to comment on the absolutely stellar acting, the peerless scripting, the perfect soundtrack selections, and the sheer cinematic joy in every shot? If you’re like me, you know Pulp Fiction like the back of your gold watch. Simply timeless.



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RoboCop is very much an outsider’s view of America. If anyone other than Dutch maverick Paul Verhoeven had made it, there’s little chance that its sharply satirical streak would have survived. The targets in this genre mishmash are as far-reaching as commercialism and gentrification, providing a deeply exaggerated view of corporate greed that grows more prescient with each passing year. And despite all of these sub-textural nuances that enrich the final product, RoboCop functions as a hypnotically over-the-top science fiction/action film. A cybernetic cop mowing down crooks is merely the window dressing. What could’ve been insufferably cheesy became something much more mythic and, dare I say it, relevant. Amidst the spent shell-casings and gallons of blood, it’s also one of the best Christ allegories ever made.

In a crime-ridden Detroit of the near future, police officer Alex Murphy (Peter Weller) is gunned-down by a criminal gang led by the bespectacled psychopath Clarence Boddicker (Kurtwood Smith). Bob Morton (Miguel Ferrer), working for the sinister Omni Consumer Products, resurrects Murphy as a near-indestructible cyborg christened RoboCop. But there’s a ghost in the machine; Murphy’s latent memories slowly bubble to the surface, posing the question: Is it the man that makes the cop, or the pneumatic parts buzzing away beneath?

Though inconceivable now, Verhoeven might never have made the film at all. His reaction to the script’s title page mirrored that of Hollywood’s elite, who had all promptly passed on the project. If it wasn’t for his wife’s prodding, Verhoeven would never have recognised the hidden intricacies in the screenplay by Edward Neumeier and Michael Miner. Everything from Frankenstein to The Terminator is referenced in the film’s pulp plot, but what really invests us is this near-dystopian society. When I think of RoboCop, I think of the hilariously forced optimism of news show Media Break, or the commercials for items you pray never exist in the real world (my favourite being the “family-friendly” boardgame, Nuke ‘Em). The reality here is not so far from our own in 2013 – unemployment is rife, mega corporations own everything, and the little guy’s interests are secondary. Because Verhoeven and his screenwriters ground this comic book reality in a recognisable tomorrow, we invest in everything that happens. Verisimilitude with a concept as silly as this was key.

And yet, RoboCop is never dour. Though its comedy is pitch black, it is often uproariously funny, even when the splatter kicks-in. Verhoeven’s previous Dutch films had indulged in graphic violence, pushing it so far that it become a punchline. His American debut only solidified that passion for screen blood-letting, summed up best in the infamous reveal of ED-209; a sequence which originally earned the film an X-rating. OCP’s first stab at an artificial lawman malfunctions and blasts a poor yuppie’s insides all over the boardroom (despite the amount of ammunition pumped into the unlucky Kenny, someone still suggests they call a paramedic). The slimy Dick Jones (Ronny Cox) calls the affair a “glitch,” which doesn’t sit well with the Old Man (Dan O’Herlihy), who is more concerned with profit loss than Kenny’s bullet-ridden corpse. As comedy, RoboCop is skirting the edge of poor taste frequently, but Verhoeven chose the right tone for a film about a robotic Judge Dredd.

If there’s one scene where the violence is meant to disturb, it is naturally Murphy’s death. We don’t get to spend too much time with this virtuous crime-fighter before he is reborn, but Neumeier and Miner give us enough details to pity him. Murphy is a family man with a wife and son trying to get by in a world that doesn’t deserve his efforts. It’s also not hard to sympathise with a man blown apart by multiple shotgun blasts (seriously, this guy takes an unbelievable beating). The sequence left a lasting impression on me as a child, and Murphy’s demise is still a gut-punch nearly thirty years later. It’s also rather brilliant that he meets his maker in an old, run-down steel mill; a symbol of industry that later brings him back.

But there’s more to Verhoeven’s bag of tricks than excessive force. Consider the scene immediately following Murphy’s death. The screen cuts to black for what feels like thirty seconds, before it suddenly splutters to life again; Murphy’s consciousness living on in the digital realm. It’s an inspired crossover into the film’s sci-fi elements, and still the director holds off on revealing RoboCop until he absolutely has to. By the time we get to a resurrected Murphy commandeering a patrol car to the sound of Basil Poledouris’ triumphant score, we don’t care that he is just an actor in a suit. We’re completely on his side.

Speaking of the costume, designer Rob Bottin deserves a lot of respect for creating something that has stood the test of time. RoboCop’s chrome armour could have come off the Detroit production line, whilst still taking inspiration from a hundred cyborg films before it. Thanks to Jost Vacano’s sterling cinematography, the effective lighting only works to enhance the suit’s metallic quality (although, HD has made some of the close-ups look a little rubbery). To this day, the film’s titular star never inspires sniggering unless the script actually calls for it.

The film’s all-important action sequences are also smartly handled, never existing just for the sake of pyrotechnics. They also possess an old school charm. In an era before rampant computer-generated trickery, some of the effects shots are showing their vintage, but Phil Tippett’s amazing stop-motion animation deserves a shout-out. Robo’s encounter with ED-209 is still a highlight, belying the picture’s tight $13 million budget. Verhoeven incorporates all of the shooting, explosions and bloodshed the genre demands without drowning out the picture’s themes.

As good as this film’s aesthetics are, it ultimately works due to the cast. They say a film is only as good as its villain and RoboCop has one of the best in 80s cinema. Smith is simply phenomenal as the sadistic Boddicker. Some will remember him best as the well-meaning dad on That 70′s Show, but he’ll always be the deplorable Clarence to me. Intelligent, well-spoken nutters are always the best, and Smith delights in every vicious detail. He is assisted ably by the equally cast-against-type Cox as Jones, who is so effective as the corporate slimeball that Verhoeven cast him as an antagonist again in Total Recall (1990). But not everyone at OCP is duplicitous. Ferrer, as RoboCop’s creator Morton, gives the character a fascinating complexity. He wants the best for his city and means no-one harm, but the most important thing in his life is his career. This is a trait the sequels lacked, painting the corporation as wholly evil when a little grey area would have made more sense.

On the other end of the spectrum, Nancy Allen drops her trademark locks as the desexualised Ann Lewis, Murphy’s former partner and the key to bringing his human side to the surface. Whilst you could argue that she doesn’t fully live up to the image of a strong, self-sufficient heroine, Lewis is paramount to making the film’s emotional core work. It’s a shame that her part was decreased in the resulting follow-ups. But if anyone deserves our respect in this cast, it’s Weller. Filming RoboCop was notoriously difficult for the actor due to the confines of the costume, but he absolutely delivers on the robotic aspect of the character. His mannerisms and vocal work completely sell the role, taking him from a mortal man to a metal behemoth to a fallibly human machine with a great deal of believability. Weller even latches onto the script’s biblical allusions, raising his arms in a Christ-like pose during the character’s murder, as well as giving a booming, god-like authority to his lines as a death-defying product. There’s something conceptually satisfying about a resurrected man getting revenge on the men who killed him at the site of his death. It even leads to a fist-raising moment in the conclusion when Murphy literally walks on water. It’s just one of the many layers that make this character more than the sum of his parts.

I’ve seen RoboCop more times than I care to admit over the years, and it remains a perfectly executed B-movie. It exists in the realm of Accidental Masterpieces, where a cheesy script was transformed into something culturally relevant by a director working at the top of his game. Enjoy it for the themes of identity, commercialism and what it means to be human. But enjoy it especially as a film where a man gets shot in the testicles, and another doused in toxic waste. Verhoeven had every base covered here. Next year’s remake doesn’t have a prayer…



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