James Bond

James Bond: No Time To Die - Profile Poster | All posters in one place |  3+1 FREE

There seemed to be some concern that the new Bond movie would be overly feminized, what with the introduction of screenplay writer Phoebe Waller-Bridge (Fleabag) and two female agents, one of whom actually replaced 007 after his retirement, which is where we find Daniel Craig at the beginning of the film. Bond is in a doomed committed relationship again and this time, he’s ready to share his feelings about the love of his life Vesper and let go for his next chapter. Oh James, to open up and trust.

He’s the most feminine thing in the movie, which should have been titled “Eat Pray Blofeld.”  The female agents (Lashana Lynch and Ana de Armas) kick ass and take names and manage to be adept, vibrant and sexy in the process. But Bond has become introspective, gooey and even uncomfortably corny, throwing off a few puns that would make both Roger Moore and Mike Myers wince.

Worse, Bond’s love, Lea Seydoux, is dull as dishwater. There is not an ounce of chemistry between her and Craig, and when he stands at the crypt of Vesper to say his final goodbye, you conclude that poor Bond has settled. So vacant and unmemorable is Seydoux, I forgot she was in the last Bond flick.

To the extent Waller-Bridge has made the franchise more women-centric, it is not necessarily feminist in approach. Lynch is essentially window-dressing, her entire persona more catty neighbor than licensed to kill.

Nor am I stuck in the past. One expects Bond to undergo updating. Hell, Craig’s entry mercifully ended the silly Vidal Sassoon era of Pierce Brosnan and the merciless lampooning of Austin Powers in one fell swoop. But the feel here is much more sitcomish, which is not an easy fit. Am I supposed to take Lynch seriously when she kvetches over the loss of her 007 identification? Where is the female equivalent of:

The picture is also interminably and unforgivably long, almost 3 hours, and the primary villain, Rami Malek, is underdeveloped to the point where his grand design of destruction is an afterthought. He doesn’t seem that into it. As you are watching Malek and Bond verbally joust, you will juxtapose the wonderful back-and-forth between Craig and Javier Bardem in Skyfall with the philosophical exchange here and pine for the days of sharp, malicious repartee. Malek and Craig are in a titanic struggle to out-bore each other, and sadly, it’s a draw.

Speaking of boring, the title song by Billie Eilish is the most forgettable in the series. It sounds as if someone is trying to get you sexually aroused with a Gregorian chant.

There is also a Russian Larry, Moe or Curly, I can’t decide, a dastardly genetic engineer who bumbles through the entire picture unintelligibly. When you can understand him, you realize that he is aping the comic stylings of Yaakov Smirnov.

Finally, the end is laughably self important and schmaltzy, Bond as Christ.

On the plus side of the ledger, Craig is still winning in moments, the locales are fresh and lush, and a few of the action sequences (two car chases) are expertly filmed by Cary Joji Fukunaga (True Detective).  But even in the shoot ups, the film falters. No Time to Die continues the mistake of the last installment, Spectre, where there is no bullet fired from Bond at the furthest vantage point that will not immediately hit his target, Bond as John Wick.

A sad end to the Craig era.

We have started a new tradition at home when all four of us are present. One of us gets to pick the movie and the other three have no veto power. I was first up and showed this gem, primarily to discomfort my wife and daughter, but also because Sean Connery had just passed and the movie always had a soft spot in my heart. In the first minutes, Connery did not disappoint: he pulled off a woman’s bikini top and strangled her with it until she gave up information on how to find his nemesis Blofeld. He also popped another woman in the mouth. Not to get too far off track, but while I can see that James Bond is certainly no paragon of modernity, the fact that he smacks women around for information always struck me as one of his more proto-feminist qualities. He does not discriminate.  Blofeld first. Chivalry second.

I loved this movie when I was a kid because when my brother and I went to Puerto Rico, and we started to fight with each other, my abuela took him for the day, and my abeulo took me. I am certain that I got the better of the deal, because I had lunch at a restaurant in San Juan where my hamburger was brought to me on an electric train. Then we went to see a double feature: this second run flick was the opener to the first run feature about a killer octopus, Tenacles. We drank up Bond and left during the fish movie. 

My love for the film grew a little more because I married a doppelgänger to Jill St. John. Of course, one would never marry a woman based on the firm imprint of a beautiful Bond girl during adolescence. But it doesn’t hurt. 

To the film. It’s pretty awful. You can see that this entry of the series was the one most heavily relied upon by Mike Myers in his Austin Powers send ups. Bond is dead-to-rights on four separate occasions, and on each, rather than shoot him dead, the villains consign him to some elaborate end which he foils. 

Worse, contrary to almost every other Bond film, the picture is ugly. The closest we get to an exotic locale is Amsterdam, where we see a dead body pulled out of one of the canals. Other than that, it’s gruesome 1970 Las Vegas, a desert, some kind of hidden missile base, and a finale on a grubby oil rig. The interior decoration seems to be Playboy-meets-The Poconos. When your most picturesque locale in a Bond film is the 1979 Circus Circus casino, oof. 

The movie also makes absolutely no sense and attempts to rely on the comic to the exclusion of any intelligible plot.  Sometimes, it borders on an episode of The Monkees. Almost every other movie in the early series entries are better.  A dog, but near and dear to my heart.

Spectre (2015) - Movie Review / Film Essay

This may be Daniel Craig’s last Bond, which is a shame, because it’s really awful and his turn revived the series. Like Skyfall before it, we again find ourselves delving into Bond’s psyche, but unlike the previous installment, the action sequences in Spectre are humdrum, the plot is even simpler and more obvious, its execution is lazy (at one point, without even a hint of foreshadowing, Bond procures a plane in a matter of 30 seconds, and he ain’t on an airfield), it recycles (an old building collapses in Mexico City, just like an old building collapsed in Venice in Casino Royale) and the bad guy – Christoph Waltz – is barely part of the film.  When Waltz’s true, hilarious motive is revealed, I guess his scarcity makes some sense.  That motive is the only thing that hints at a sense of humor but the inducement of chuckles was assuredly unintentional.  Otherwise, we are apparently supposed to take this seriously.

Director Sam Mendes (Skyfall) doesn’t help matters by focusing on visually striking images above all else. Bond seems to simply appear from the mist in every scene, impeccably and nattily tailored, and after enough of these fashionista turns, the movie feels more like a cologne or car commercial than a picture. Bond romances a woman (the underused Monica Bellucci) against a big mirror in the vast open room of a Roman villa, and you can’t believe the scene does not end with “Obsession. By Calvin Klein.”

Spectre is also cursed by the most vacuous Bond girl since Tanya Roberts. Leya Seydoux is the daughter of his nemesis. In, I am guessing, her late 20s, she is a brilliant and accomplished psychologist with inconvenient but lush offices in the Austrian Alps (she actually has Bond fill out a medical questionnaire; oh to have seen his answers under the section “Sexually Transmitted Diseases”). She’s also weightless and dull as dishwater. It’s as if the producers went out of their way to find a French Taylor Swift.

Finally, Mendes has elevated Bond to the status of super hero.  As he escapes Waltz’s lair (Waltz is experimenting on him with drills for reasons that still don’t make any sense to me but harkens uncomfortably back to Dr. Evil), he manages to blow the entire installation up with a gunshot while killing a dozen heavily armed henchmen with a handgun.  After taking a vicious beating at the hands of a new thug – Dave Bautista, who promises to be a recurring figure ala’ Jaws – Bond and Seydoux are quickly dusted off for a quickie looking no worse for wear; indeed, they actually look better.  And at the end, Bond simply snaps cuffs off of his wrist, one presumes by the mere force of his personality.  Yes, Bond is an exceptional assassin, but one of the joys of Craig was the return to a gut-level, human 007.  Now, he’s Captain America.  Or Captain England.

Even the Sam Smith song is atrocious, as is its accompanying, bizarre title sequence.  Poorly done all around.

Pin on Jinx

Even Halle Berry cannot save the ridiculously coiffed, barely interested Pierce Brosnan in the last of his four Bond films (her love scene with Brosnan makes you uncomfortable, like watching your father dance to a pop song at a wedding). Shockingly, even though Austin Powers had been released five years earlier, this Bond film amped up the cheese, provided a cartoonishly mwahahaaa villain (Toby Stephens), an ice fortress, Duran Duran video slow-motion, enough sexual double entendres to shame Roger Moore, Halle Berry uttering the line “read this bitch!” to baddie Rosamund Pike, and perhaps the most laughable stunt in the series.

Bond gains entrance to the villain’s lair because a guard takes a leak at an inopportune time.  You can hear the toilet flushing.  Hilarious.

Daniel Craig arrived in the nick of time.

Late Roger Moore Bond films, with the cornball quips and the hideous 80s fashion, obscure the fact that Moore used to be a pretty cool James Bond.  After the confusion of George Lazenby’s bizarre withdrawal from the series having only done one film (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service) Sean Connery was hurried back to woo Jill St. John in Diamonds are Forever for a then-astronomical $1 million.  But Connery was finished, so Moore was signed up (he’d already played a secret agent – Simon Templar – on television’s The Saint) .

Live and Let Die has Bond tracking Dr. Kananga (Yaphet Kotto), the dictator of a small Caribbean nation, after MI6 agents start dropping like flies.  Kananga is into drugs and voodoo, using Solitaire (Jane Seymour) and her gift with tarot cards to his advantage (until Bond deflowers her and she loses her “sight”).  Paul McCartney and Wings produced a rollicking theme (ranked number two here), there is a tremendous cigarette boat race, and Bond effectuates one of his better escapes from a Florida crocodile farm.

The new Bond presents as unflappable, as well as perpetually amused.  He’s also the horniest of the Bonds.  Moore, who just wrote a book on his time as Bond, articulated both his admiration for current Bond Daniel Craig and his own ethos:  “Now they’ve found the Bond—Daniel Craig…. I always said Sean played Bond as a killer and I played Bond as a lover. I think that Daniel Craig is even more of a killer. He has this superb intensity; he’s a glorious actor.”

Moore also identified his principal weakness as Bond: “Quite honestly, I do everything the same and I think everything comes out the same, whether I’m flinching as James Bond or raising my eyebrows as Simon Templar.”  His casualness often borders on disinterest and a certain “mailing it in” approach results.

As for the film, it has two primary faults.  First, an annoying Louisiana good ole’ boy, Sheriff Pepper (Clifton James), brought in for broad, Jerry Lewisesque comic relief.  Second, a very poor finale, with the delightful Kananga dispatched in a manner way beyond the special effects capabilities of the time.  He deserved better.

Daniel Craig’s second turn as Bond is moodier, not as brisk and bracing as Casino Royale.  Coming off the loss of the love of his life (pretending, of course, that George Lazenby and Pierce Brosnan never lost their hearts to Diana Rigg and Teri Hatcher),* Bond is bitter and ultra-violent, and he is made more so after an attempt on M’s (Judi Dench) life.  As he investigates, M upbraids him for killing all his leads, but Bond is driven, uncovering a sophisticated plot by faux-environmentalist Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) to corner the market on a precious resource.

The plot is serviceable, and the film sports three exciting and audacious action sequences – car chase, boat chase, plane chase – and a thrilling shootout finale.  Amalric is also an interesting villain, not quite charming or brilliant, but casually efficient and super-creepy.  And of all the secondary Bond girls, Quantum features my favorite, Gemma Arterton as

Image result for Quantum of Solace Strawberry Fields sexy

Strawberry Fields

There is also a virtuoso surveillance scene during a performance of Tosca at the open air Opera building in Bregenz, Austria, as well as intriguing backstabbing between British surveillance and the CIA, which brings in my favorite Felix Lighter (Geoffrey Wright).

On the downside, after the death of Vesper (Eva Green) in Casino, Bond is perhaps too brooding in this flick, and the angst-level is often very high.  But you could have easily predicted the charge of excessive-seriousness, as if there were some bizarre nostalgia for the bonhomie of Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan.   Given that director Marc Forster (Monster’s Ball, Finding Neverland, The Kite Runner) doesn’t come from action stock, it is easy to conclude that was perhaps taking itself too seriously.

Phooey.  This is one of the stronger Bonds.  It’s also distinctive.  Especially impressive is Foster’s filming of Bond’s escape from the opera.  There is no jacked-up Bond score, but rather, a dreamlike flight as Tosca dominates the soundtrack.

*  By the way, when Bond becomes emotionally involved with a woman, it’s hard to fault his choices:


Skyfall' sends Bond franchise soaring again

In his third turn as James Bond, Daniel Craig is close-cropped, weathered (think a better-tailored Steve McQueen in Papillon) and dispirited.  M (Judi Dench) put him in his funk.  She made a tough call without batting an eye and as a result, Bond was shot and presumed dead. He survived the bullet but left the job to drown his sorrows. Another former 00 agent (Javier Bardem), however, harbors a much nastier grudge against M, bringing Bond back to life and service.

There are weaknesses.  Skyfall is merely a revenge flick.  All of Bardem’s efforts are directed at killing M, which is not all that interesting. Moreover, Bardem not only wants to kill M, but he wants to do it face-to-face (early in the film, he proves how vulnerable she is by blowing up her London offices via computer).  So, his master stroke (a hit on M as she testifies before a board of inquiry) seems unnecessarily elaborate given that if successful, he’s probably going to shoot her in the back in a confused firefight.

The film is also heavy on exploring Bond’s psyche. We learn he is an orphan (thus, his wounds from M’s callousness are all the deeper).  We also see his psychological interview (to determine his fitness for duty) and even the crawl space where he hid as a lad upon hearing of the death of his parents. The interview has funny moments (including a clever word association; the psychologist says “murder” and Bond responds “employment”) but it also reveals Bond’s “Rosebud.” The revelation of the childhood hideout and trauma feels too close, too modern.

Bond’s generational clash is another theme, one better delivered. We meet a new Q (a twenty something played by Ben Whishaw, who was impressive in BBC’s “The Hour”). Q fences with Bond about the utility of having live agents searching for intel. Meanwhile, forces all around Bond and M are telegraphing it is time to pack it in.   Even the villain, Bardem, positively winces at the rigor of field work. He can do it, but he elegantly expresses his preference for the click of a mouse.

Bardem is perfect. He’s psychotic, charming and empathetic. His opening speech on what to do with rats on an island is riveting and his playful sexual come-on to Bond is surprising and convincing.  He steals the show.

The Bond women are distinct and sexy.  The first is a lithe, capable agent (Naomie Harris) who is given the order by M to take her shot in the opening scene (she misses the bad guy and plugs Bond, resulting in some clever repartee’ upon his return).  The second (Bérénice Marlohe) is a doomed beauty, in mortal fear of Bardem, latching on to Bond as her salvation.

The action sequences are up to snuff, if not dazzling. The finale is an old fashioned shootout where Bardem and his army attempt to get at Bond and M at his childhood home, an ancient Scottish manor house. They are assisted by the property’s game keeper, Albert Finney, which could have been cutesy but works out fine.  It also introduces shotguns. Shotguns are cool.

Sam Mendes (American Beauty, Road to Perdition, and the ghastly Revolutionary Road) seemed a strange choice to helm. But he proved capable of action in Road to Perdition, and he puts his stamp on the franchise. Mendes is patient and methodical, comfortable with a moody but chattier Bond, where the discussions are not rushed.

Perhaps indicative of a future lighter touch, Skyfall closes with not only a Bond lightened by catharsis, but the introduction of a captivating new Moneypenny (Harris) and a report to his new boss, Ralph Fiennes.

This is the second Bond film I saw in the theater, after Live and Let Die, and it is probably the last of the series that gave us a youthful Roger Moore.  By the next installment, Moonraker, the lines had gotten deeper, the hair higher yet thinner, and the bones creakier.

Billionaire Kurt Jurgens (Karl Stromberg) seeks to start a nuclear war between the Soviet Union and the United States, so he can rule a post-apocalyptic world from the sea.  Jurgens steals a Russian and American nuclear submarine to his purpose, and Bond and his female Russian counterpart Anya Amasova (Ringo Starr’s gorgeous but not particularly talented Barbara Bach) are dispatched to get to the bottom if it.  Unbeknownst to Bond, in one of the few Bond ski sequences that work, he killed Amasova’s love, and she has vowed to kill Bond – when the mission is over.

Many of the hallmarks of a good Bond film are here – exotic locales (such as Asgard Peak in Austria; Egypt, including the Giza Necropolis, Great Pyramids and Great Sphinx; and the cliffs of Sardinia), a first-rate Bond song (“Nobody Does it Better”), and several beauties, including  a favorite, the lethal helicopter pilot Caroline Munro-

The Spy Who Loved Me review - Moore's best Bond - Lyles Movie Files

The film also has an interesting and grandiose villain and a serviceable script.  The action sequence when the Soviets and Americans join forces to take on Stromberg’s army is also very exciting and novel.

However, the warning signs for the series first appeared in The Spy Who Loved Me.  The pun and snappy rejoinder quotient increased markedly.  The use of the cheezy, roving sax to denote the funny or the fanny is prevalent.   The introduction of the villain Jaws (Richard Kiel) pushed the story further, into slapstick.

There is simply too much of that and not enough of this:

(though, even here, a meaner Bond is compelled to drop, “You shot your bolt” into the action)

The changes, however, could in no way be challenged at the time.  The film cost $14 million to make and grossed $185 million worldwide.