Well, even having a ‘nemesis’.
The quartermaster usually handled that.
No doubt.
It’s a mystery how enough people thought that the bullet is the problem and not what it did to get there for it to become a cliche.
Well, all the people who don’t have bullets feel perfectly fine
Oh, and when the field surgeon (or, usually, an unqualified partner/friend) says “Got it!”, and pulls the bullet out of the hero’s shoulder, I often say “Too bad there’s not a metal pan to drop it into with a satisfying ‘Clink’!”
Last time I said this, even though they were in a bombed-out street, there it was: ‘Clink’! … and the camera pulled back to show a bystander with the standard enameled metal pan.
I’m serious, someone was wandering by with the ubiquitous 5x7" half-inch deep metal pan!
I love how the field surgeon–or any surgeon–just goes fishin’ around in an open wound as if he’s got a shovel in a wide trench, lookin’ for that small nugget ‘o’ gold. Radiography, bah! Just start poking and prodding!
Tripler
If s/he’s lucky, it’ll just fall out onto the floor.
…with the exact same ‘Clink!’
Some low hangin’ fruit on this one. . .
Another thing about bomb responses that bugs me is just how close everyone is to the suspect package. Seriously, cordons in Hollywood are like, only 100’ away, with gawkers and looky-loos totally out in the open waiting for the “bang.”
And of course, the hero always defaults to opening-for-a -peek/hand-cutting any motherf*ckin wire while physically adjacent to the aforementioned suspect package.
It’s almost as if 50 years of robotics technology just up and vanished from common sense.
Tripler
No, one does NOT cut wires as a first step.
Well, not the red one, anyway…
No, wait! Green!
Why do bombs on TV tell you exactly how many minutes & seconds remain until they’ll explode? That’s so considerate of the bomber!
I think that trope is based on back when time bombs might be triggered mechanically by an alarm clock or oven timer. There’s no reason to have a time display with digital timers, expect to create tension in the audience.
And I swear that almost every scene where the last minute is ticking down on the bomb lasts five or ten minutes.
If I ever built such a bomb I can guarantee it’d go off when the timer read something like 5 minutes 47seconds to go.
Unless it was strapped to the captured hero so he could watch the countdown. Then it’d go off about 4 minutes after the timer hit zero and began counting up.
For a nice guy I’m pretty good at Evil Plans.
As a side bar, there was a famous countdown timer that was stopped at a specific time for effect even though the original script had it otherwise:
In the movie Goldfinger the countdown timer stops at, of course 007 rather than 001 as originally planned. It is considered the first Bond movie to be the template for the rest (even though it is the 3rd) so stopping at 007 is just another way in which it does that
//i\\
Everybody needs a hobby.
It’s not ANY wire. If there are two wires going into a detonator stuck into a block of C4, it’s pretty obvious which wires to cut.
Too bad, even TV characters don’t know this.
Yeah, but they’re all in one rural county. It’s only slightly expanding the scope.
While we’re on sleepy villages awash with murderers, it still seems to be the rule that any woman discovering a murdered corpse has to (a) drop whaever she’s carrying - preferably something really noisy like a tea-tray - and (b) scream the place down uncontrollably.
And then - one for this side of the Atlantic - there are the shows that still have British judges banging gavels, US-style.
Traditionally in Australia, bars were tied to a brewery. What you asked for was a size of glass: as “I’ll have a schooner” or “Can I have a pot”. It was specifically one of the things my brother noticed about Belgium: you couldn’t just go into a bar and ask for a beer.
In Melbourne, you could tell what kind of beer you were going to get by the sign outside. In some other places, you knew just by your location.
Regarding, “Gimme a beer,” that was the way things were in Ontario, Canada, for many years. Let me explain.
Ontario has traditionally had a “Grandma Grundy” approach to beverage alcohol: “Okay, it’s legal, but we’re going to make sure you won’t enjoy buying or consuming it.” Yes, you could buy it and consume it at home, but you’d buy it from a government store that was straight out of the USSR: fill out a form, pay the cashier, get a receipt, and give the stamped receipt to a guy at another counter. He’d go into the back, and bring out your booze, and wrap it in brown paper, then put it in a brown paper bag. Buying beer was much the same, minus the forms and receipts and brown paper, but you still ordered from a cashier, who called your order, via a microphone, into the back, where somebody would get what you wanted and send it out front via a conveyor. This is what Bob and Doug McKenzie did in the movie Strange Brew.
As for the consumption, proper bars stocked with liquor and offering cocktails and highballs, were illegal in Ontario until about 1947. But there were “beverage rooms,” a euphemism for “beer parlour.” A few of them were still operating when I became old enough to drink in the 1970s, and I and my friends went to a couple, just for S&G.
They were depressing places. There were tables and chairs–you could not sit at the bar–and little in the way of decoration. Each table had an ashtray and a shaker of salt. No TV or radio, though you could bring a newspaper or a book. If you were lucky, there might be a jukebox, but no dancing, or indeed, standing up if you had a beer on the table in front of you (except for washroom trips). Nothing to eat, unless you wanted to buy a bag of potato chips or salted peanuts; and you had to buy those–simply giving them away might make you thirsty, thus making you consume more beer. Remember, the idea was to make the drinking experience as repugnant and depressing as possible.
With that said, and getting back to the point of the thread, Ontario’s beverage rooms tended to have only draft beer, and only one brand would be available on any given day. There was no bottled beer available, nor any wine or liquor or coffee or soft drinks; just one brand of draft beer. It varied; one day, there might be Molson Export, the next day might offer Labatt 50, and the day after that, O’Keefe’s. There was no rhyme or reason to the day’s choice; it was whatever the beverage room’s proprietor decided would be offered that day. A sign over the bar would often tell you: “On Draft Today:,” and under that, a chalkboard or replaceable sign would say “Molson Ex,” or “Labatt 50,” or whatever. If you didn’t like what was on draft, tough.
Given all that, it was entirely possible to order “a beer.” Actually, it was better to order two or four, since as I recall, beers in beverage rooms were served in four- or six-ounce glasses. Payment was in cash only, on the spot, to your waiter, and you couldn’t run a tab. At any rate, my long-ago visits to Ontario beverage rooms were the only time in my life when I could order “a beer” without being asked “What kind?”
i posted this in another tv thread but :
any modren cop show with forsenics in it : we need a few 20 grand+ gadgets with tests that costs even more so that we can pick up a single flake of designer coke off the pube of the dead hooker who over heard too much that we found in the criminal masterminds hotel room
Tv response : " what ever it taked to catch this bastard "
Real life response ?: the person who would approve such things is listening with a wide eye but silent cold stare and the petitioner backing out of the room slowly