I watched Die Hard again this week. Yes, again. And yes, it is a Christmas movie. I will not be taking questions at this time.

Once you’ve lived in Los Angeles, watching Die Hard becomes a scavenger hunt. You stop following the plot and start clocking landmarks. Oh, that exit. That building. That’s not how traffic works, but fine. I always look for something new, which is impressive given how many times I’ve seen this movie. You’d think by now I’d have exhausted its secrets. And yet, there’s always something.

This year, though, it hit differently.

Watching Bruce Willis knowing what we now know about his significant cognitive decline, adds an unexpected layer of gravity. There’s something quietly heartbreaking and deeply meaningful about seeing him at the height of his sharpness, wit, and physical confidence. John McClane isn’t just surviving; he’s thinking on his feet, improvising, bantering, problem-solving under pressure. The mind is agile. The timing is perfect. It’s a reminder of who he was and always will be in our collective memory.

And Alan Rickman. My God. Hans Gruber. One of the greatest villains of all time. Educated. Calm. Impeccably dressed. Terrifying without raising his voice. Watching him is like watching a master class in controlled menace. Every time he’s on screen, I think about how Yes, That. That’s how you enter a room.

Honestly, I want to be both of them. McClane’s grit and Gruber’s composure. Chaos and control. Sneakers and tailored suits. It’s aspirational.

There’s also something comforting about Die Hard in general. The predictability. The familiar beats. The knowledge that no matter how dire things get, someone will crawl through air ducts, tape a gun to their back, and figure it out. It’s oddly soothing. Especially this year.

And let’s talk about the toes. The fists-with-your-toes thing. Does it work? I don’t know. Do I still do it every time I check into a hotel? Absolutely. With commitment. There is something very 1980s about the idea that stress can be managed by aggressively gripping carpet. And yet, here we are.

Maybe that’s why this movie endures. It’s competence porn with a holiday backdrop. It’s about resilience. About grit. About ordinary people rising to impossible circumstances. It’s loud, ridiculous, and deeply reassuring.

This year, watching it felt like a love letter to performance, presence, and a time when our action heroes were allowed to be flawed, barefoot, and bleeding and still win.

So yes. Die Hard is a Christmas movie. It’s tradition. It’s comfort. It’s nostalgia with explosions.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to unclench my toes and pour some eggnog.