by Patrick Taggart
The
respirator can be
unplugged, but let’s keep him in intensive care a bit longer. 007 isn’t quite
yet out of the woods.
Granted, the most durable of all secret agents has rallied strongly in his
latest iteration. But few would dispute the notion that his condition over the
last several years has virtually redefined the idea of lengthy illness.
“Bond… James Bond.” The words are so familiar, the sound almost comforting.
It’s not so much a matter of our having become personally endeared to the silky
smooth, handsome man of the world. After all, time after time he showed himself
to be a remorseless killer. No, the enduring appeal is owed to the style of
moviemaking one associates with the Bond films — or at least used to
associate with the Bond series in its heyday.
The tradition of cinematic spy thrillers is rich, incorporating some of the
best work of Alfred Hitchcock, in too many films for listing here, and, among
many novelists, Richard Condon (The Manchurian Candidate). The title
many people offer when asked their favorite movie is that of a spy story:
Casablanca.
But it wasn’t until Bond’s arrival in 1962, with Dr. No, that the spy
thriller became big, lush, worldly, exotic, romantic. The Bond thrillers,
originally based on stories by Ian Fleming, established themselves immediately
as Major Motion Pictures.
To think of Bond is to inevitably be reminded of the character that is Bond.
And we all know what that is. In the early Sixties, he was handsome,
courageous, intuitive, worldly, and extremely effective at his work. He drank a
man’s drink and had scores of women. In the Nineties, he is handsome,
courageous, intuitive, worldly, and still an extremely effective professional.
He is quite possibly a secret lush and without question a ruthless sexual
predator.
But Bond also conjures images of sun-drenched Mediterranean beaches, of
glittery Monte Carlo casinos, of couples sipping cappuccino on the verandas of
Alpine ski resorts. To this viewer, who saw Dr. No as a 13-year-old, the
real draw of Bond was not sex and violence. It was travel, glamor, power, and
just enough danger to make things interesting. (I don’t have to remind 007’s
fans that in 18 films, not counting the spoof Casino Royale, Bond has
seldom if ever suffered anything more than a few scratches.)
The early Bonds (Dr. No, From Russia With Love, Goldfinger, Thunderball,
You Only Live Twice) are by today’s standards somewhat old-fashioned.
Techno-gadgetry is mercifully limited to Q’s wondrous devices. There is no need
for an automatic weapon or explosion when a pistol and silencer will do.
The early Bonds were more believable, in a word, and their march away from
credibility brought them ultimately to Moonraker, an absurd,
tongue-in-cheeky film that ought to be removed and sent the way of
arch-villains Blofeld and SPECTRE. Subsequent films have hewed more closely to
the physically possible.
When Sean Connery departed the series after Diamonds Are Forever in
1971, the series was never to be the same. This is not to say that it was never
as good. His successor, Roger Moore, was tall, good-looking, and seemed to
enjoy himself in the seven films he made as England’s indestructible secret
agent. He didn’t have that singular ingredient Connery brought to the role,
which is the ability to appeal to both sexes. Connery was a man’s man and, as
they used to say, a ladies’ man. Connery’s Bond seemed to live for the danger
and intrigue; Moore seemed more comfortable circulating among the gaming
tables.
In any case, The Spy Who Loved Me (1977) and For Your Eyes Only
(1981), both with Moore, can be counted among the best in the series.
Eyes Only marked the beginning of a five film stewardship under
director John Glen. After that first film, the Bond series entered a decline
from which it has yet to recover.
Glen made two more films with Moore, the middling Octopussy and the
dreadful A View to a Kill. The aging Moore then departed the series and
the promising Timothy Dalton signed on. In the early 1970s, Dalton had
contributed a smoldering, hunky Heathcliff to a remake of Wuthering
Heights. Alas, the two Bond films featuring Dalton were both dreary and
long-winded; Glen’s sparkless style suggested a film assembled from an
engineer’s drawings. Dalton didn’t help; his Bond was moody and humorless.
And so the series rested for six years, the longest interim ever. I can only
hope that Bond’s producers have figured it out: We didn’t tire of Bond. We
tired of the creaky, lumbering, two-hour-plus ways his sagas were presented to
us.
Pierce Brosnan is the new Bond and — news flash — he’s no Sean Connery
either. He possesses neither the gift for irony nor the rich baritone. But he’s
nice looking and when he pulls his sidearm he doesn’t remind us of Michael
Dukakis riding around in that tank.
The new director is Martin Campbell, who scored some hits on British
television before directing Defenseless and No Escape. He has
picked up the pace and given the film some thrilling action scenes, including
the destined-to-be-famous chase with an armored tank. But there’s still too
much time wasted with static scenes of spies scowling at each other in
windowless rooms with a lot of push-button-operated moving panels. You may also
miss the John Barry music — given only a few measures here — which, to me, is
as key to the magic of Bond films as Bernard Herrmann is to Psycho.
To be sure, Campbell and Brosnan deserve another shot, and I hope it doesn’t
take six years. In the meantime, if Liam Neeson wants to suit up as Bond and go
to work for James Cameron, Steven Spielberg, or Robert Rodriguez as director,
you’ll hear no objection from me. n
This article appears in December 1 • 1995 and December 1 • 1995 (Cover).