Now, in A Good Day to Die Hard, there's a scene about 45 minutes into the movie in which McClane (along with his son, played by Jai Courtney, whom I did enjoy in this role) finds himself, once again, in a high-rise building. A helicopter is firing bullets into the room that the McClanes are in, so McClane and his son run at top speed toward the windows, break through, and jump into infinity. The two then crash though scaffolding at a high rate of speed (scaffolding that it's hard to believe they were aware existed), eventually falling into a chute of some kind and then landing safely on the ground without harm. McClane didn't think twice about this decision; there was no anguish at the thought of dying. He didn't even bother looking for a fire hose to swing from.
Normally, when it comes to movies, I'm a Bond kind of gal. Last week, between the cruddy news in the world and the looming changes in my own nest, I found myself in a bathrobe-wearing, chocolate-grazing sort of mood, for which the only cure is to watch a movie about women, starring women, and for women.