The Same Kind of Compressed Cacophony as Music on the Radio These Days

Rating: 2/10 (5 December 2008)

Bond is a fragile creature. He can take an unlimited amount of battering in character but a limited quantity as a serialised story of an MI6 hero. With time, he has been fashioned to meet the "requirements" of an ever-changing audience, even though those on the cutting edge and in the vanguard probably don't watch Bond. We could stomach the shift to Pierce Brosnan, because he replaced the useless Timothy Dalton. We could bear the introduction of the female M, because we knew that Barbara Broccoli is at the producer's helm for these movies. We could grasp rather than gasp at the short-haired, homely Miss Moneypenny, because, well, the odds were that our own girlfriends sitting next to us in the cinema would look like her.
I suppose the newest modifications have come as a result of the belief in "anything goes" as long as the product has enough action and some decent girls in it. This belief extends even to the 007-song, which is much worse, if you believe, than Madonna or Chris Cornell's -- it sounds like a studio outtake and is instantly forgettable.
This time Bond is out to avenge the death of Vesper Lynd. From the earlier one, I can vaguely remember that she was an attractive young, sophisticated lady, who had gone to all the right schools, who teased Bond and who ultimately faced a horrendous death being handcuffed to an old elevator that went down into water in a tumbling house in Venice. Now, if that is the case, newcomers should at least be treated to a scene of Vesper's painting on the wall with Bond silently kneeling in front of it, or something, to remind us what really motivates Bond and a string of these brutal, fast-paced, immoral, licensed but M-disapproved killings. We're offered none of that but an endless parade of disposable villains and sidekicks, too (ref. Mathis and Fields' deaths, the latter executed in such a glib way evoking "Goldfinger"). It's telling that in this newest one, we won't see even a glimpse of Q, who designs the weaponry and cars. The closest tech thing to Bond is his mobile phone.
Namely, male audiences of the Bond franchise respect the action, but they also want a bit of nostalgia, humour, logic, dining, tech, music and depth. Logic and depth here are sorely M.I.A. The sequences have been edited into such fast-paced runs that it's not at all clear whether what Bond just did would have destroyed his enemies or backfired on himself. If he farts, it does not automatically mean that the villain be decapitated. The old Bonds were beautifully constructed, using period pace as the bricks and contemporary logic as the mortar. Those of today seem to be a bit too much to bear.
I would endorse Bond even if he read poetry to his now-or-then-squeeze or played Spanish guitar or went to the Sex Fair with Miss Moneypenny. Instead, Bond has returned as something of a modern, dysfunctional, ADHD-crippled, emotionless, humourless, tradition-amnesiac "scaffolder" (he fights more these days on scaffolds than in submarines.) His evening dress seems to be dirty more as a rule than an exception. The old Bond wore a nice tuxedo each time. He's scarred and he can't even order a Martini anymore but drinks anything with enough vodka in it. Have they blended "Auf Wiedersehen, Pet" into Bonds? What an unlikely shandy.
The marriage is ugly. Daniel Craig should be divorced. Bond actors seem to come in two categories. The prime threesome is Connery, Moore, Brosnan. They lasted, the last of them until 2004. The inferior cast consists of Lazenby, Dalton, Craig. They were fired or should have been after one or two movies. Lest we forget, a lot of the 001-006s have gone M.I.A., K.I.A. or D.O.A., and this applies to the actors as well. This leaves room still for another Bond, the seventh one. If he were any good, he'd truly earn the 007 digit.