10. The London Metropolitan Police Hot Fuzz
Poor Nick Angel. Though humourless, the man's fantastic at his job and blazes a trail for what a top police officer (you can't say man, vocab guidelines label that sexist) can do when they put their mind to it. He forges relations with London's various ethnic groups, serves on SO 19, takes a hand-stabbing from Peter Jackson in a Santa Claus outfit and disdainfully pimp-slaps other less talented folk out of the Fuzz's extracurricular activities. Yet how is he rewarded? The service (you can't say force now, vocab guidelines label that too aggressive) drum him out to Sanford so he can't keep showing them up. Obviously in movie terms this is great by throwing an ashen-faced urban-dweller into Country Bumpkinsville, we get all sorts of fish-out-of-water comedy and the most glorious Gloucestershire accents committed to celluloid. However, if Nick had just gone to his union, we could've saved on all the murder-y kerfuffle. Despite the Chief Inspector's megalomaniac response to Angel's you-can't-disappear-people protest ("Yes I can, I'm the Chief Inspector"), he really, really can't do anything he wants. If Nick took a union's advice and called the lawyers, he could've gone back to being the Sherriff of London within weeks. Of course, watching a dour grump rake his employers over the coals wouldn't have made for nearly as fun a movie, but it's what's right, dammit.