"Resurrection" is the new mid-life crisis

Rating: 10/10 (20 March 2016)

No one would ever expect James Bond to age gracefully - or even age at all. Nearly 20 years after Judi Dench's M first hissed his "sexist, misogynist dinosaur, a relic of the Cold War" epitaph, and ten since his 40th anniversary proved so gaudily juvenile it prompted a franchise reboot, 007 is still endeavouring to validate his own continued existence. Enter Sam Mendes, one of the industry's most venerated working filmmakers, to help lend Bond's 50th some dignity and he kills Bond off before the opening credits. Goldfinger would be so proud.
That Bond returns, reinvigorated by the soulful strains of Adele's outstanding theme, is no surprise. But how he returns, brushing aside phoenix metaphors with Craig's trademark disdainful grimace, is truly extraordinary. Peerlessly mature, emotional, thrilling, Skyfall sets a new precedent for the consummate Bond film, excelling on every possible front, and exceeding the sum of its component parts, thanks to Mendes' careful mediation of a cat's cradle of seething emotional turmoil. Pulse-pounding chases, blistering fist fights and shootouts, casual sex and pithy wit aside, Skyfall is a film about legacy, reconciling the open wounds of the past, and challenging the myth of the valourized super-agent amidst bureaucratic accountability - a long, hard look at what 007 the 21st century needs, or if we even need him at all. Spoiler alert: we do, and Mendes' astounding work here is enough to leave even the most stubborn holdouts leaving with the Bond riff blaring in their heads.
The plot of Bond hunting for a cyberterrorist gunning for MI6 might appear initially safe territory, but we swiftly learn that nothing is as it seems. In the hands of Mendes, all of the normal 'safe' Bond archetypes are destabilized: M is this episode's 'Bond girl', familiar names and titles are masked by unfamiliar faces, and arch-fiend Silva is too sympathetic to be reduced to the usual cartoon stereotype. In short: nothing and no one is safe, and it makes for far more fresh, vibrant viewing than the usual 007 routine. It's also easily the most aesthetically gorgeous 007 ever, as Roger Deakins makes the panoramas of Shanghai, Macao, and the Scottish highlands burst into life with breathtaking light shows and sumptuous splashes of colour (the "jellyfish" framed silhouette fight is pure, undiluted cinematic pleasure). Similarly, Thomas Newman's score blends everyone's favourite thematic 007 leitmotifs with a dazzlingly rich array of background textures, driving the film with furious momentum while also colouring it with a reflectively melancholy undercurrent. And if all that isn't groundbreaking enough for you: Bond even hints at a gay experience. This truly is the 21st century.
That said, the dramatic purist Mendes also proves to have a wicked sense of fun, and pairs the rich emotional storytelling (yes really) with some of the most inventively batty 007 thrills yet. While some of the earlier moments of subterfuge tow the line of being a touch too leisurely, we're still spoiled with the creatively bombastic thrills of Bond driving a backhoe through a train, leaping off a komodo dragon, blowing up the better half of the London underground, and even getting to bomb around in his old Aston Martin DB5 in the film's sole, and utterly gleeful, piece of fan service. It's not absolutely flawless: Silva's master plan leans somewhat too heavily on The Dark Knight - slightly too convoluted not to strain credibility, even for 007 - while the climactic pyrotechnics-fest, though electrifyingly breathless, is somewhat harder to take seriously once the words "Home Alone" are uttered (oops). Still - this is utterly top-notch entertainment, and, paired with the far higher emotional stakes than the average Bond, it's unsurprising to find yourself relaxing from the edge of your seat far more often than expected.
Still, Mendes is very much an actor's director, and it's in the film's performances he contributes his most invaluable work. Already firmly established, Craig effortlessly wears Bond like a tailor-cut tuxedo here, his tawny listlessness and debonair muscularity the subtle tells for his carefully buried inner fraying. Physically and emotionally battered, with "why not stay dead" forebodingly echoing, Craig manifests vulnerability through a disarming 'don't give a sh*t' jocularity, perfectly making Bond's wit his own without resorting to the arched eyebrow of Moore and Brosnan. Squaring off against him, Javier Bardem's Silva is a unexpected pleasure of a threat. Cheeky, playful, sickening, raw, and dangerous, Bardem's massive charisma is ferociously commanding, as he blends the best bits of GoldenEye's warped agent trope and the megalomaniacs of the 60s with a performance as dazzlingly flamboyant as his hair, and an unforgettably chilling walk-on opening monologue. If there's a more compelling 007 arch-nemesis out there, we've yet to encounter them.
The wonderful Naomie Harris, Ben Whishaw, and Ralph Fiennes all lend endearingly lovable support as the new MI6 family, each triumphantly owning their beats of sardonic humour. Bérénice Marlohe exemplifies the 'Bond girl' blend of silkily seductive, dazzlingly gorgeous, but with a winning dash of fervent, haunted pathos, in a too-short appearance, while Albert Finney is hilariously gruff in a cameo one can't help but speculate was originally intended for another crusty Scot with 007 ties. Still, the real star is the show is Judi Dench - fittingly, in her 007th time reprising her character. Dench has always been class incarnate, but this time, beneath the icy repartee we get a sense at the truly human resolve fuelling her unflinching dedication to country and getting the bloody job done. It's a genuine pleasure to spend so much time with such an incomparable performer here.
Stylish, confident, emotional, and phenomenally fun, Skyfall proudly rears its head as a toss-up for the best Bond film yet. Better yet: in Mendes' masterful grip, the populist blockbuster of the 007 mythology is elevated and perfected with immaculate, artful precision. Here's to another 50, Mr. Bond. Many happy returns.
-9.5/10