The New Bond


[Casino Royale is now available on DVD. Warning: Spoilers linger herein.]

Like any good Brit, Bond fandom is in my husband’s blood; he’s read the books and seen all the films—and like any good Scot, he regards Sean Connery as the Best Bond in the History of the Universe. I’d never seen a Bond film until I met Mr. McEwan, and when we went to see Casino Royale at the cinema when it was first released, it was the first time I’d ever seen one on the big screen. And, quite honestly, I went along because Mr. M. loves the films, not because I had any particular yen to see it myself. It’s not because I don’t like the genre; I could watch the Bourne movies a thousand times and never tire of them. It’s just that the Bond franchise didn’t quite jive with my, um, aesthetic.

Part of it, naturally, was being a crabby old stick in the mud who had no joy for one of the most celebrated Western male icons using scantily clad women like disposable toys, but that wasn’t the only reason I was never especially enamored with Bond, James Bond. By late in the series, circa Brosnan, the unveiling of super-gadgets and elaborate hi-tech Houdinism was so hackneyed it was turning Bond into a satire of his former self. This is James Bond. This is James Bond on digital steroids. All pretense of captivating plot (and, largely, good acting) were left by the wayside in favor of the thinnest of connective tissues holding together one explosion, one daring and death-defying getaway, and the next. If you’re going to relegate a recognizable and lit-based character to the action equivalent of a porno, you ought to at least have the best special effects in the biz—and they didn’t.

So I was glad that reviews of Casino Royale were announcing a New Bond, back to the Old Bond, or a Bond reimagined, depending on one’s perspective and familiarity with the books, but in any case celebrating a relief from Bond’s distracting dependence on his ubiquitous gadgetry. But few of them saw fit to mention that what was arguably the most misogynist mainstream film franchise in history had exiled its sexism, too.

When we watched Dr. No again recently, between Bond referring to Moneypenny as “government property” and reacting to the perpetually half-naked Honey Ryder’s claim that she did in her rapist with a black widow spider by telling her, “Well, it wouldn’t do to make a habit of it”—this, from a character who regularly kills men for less—I was reminded how big a role sexism played in the series right from its start. Over the years the Bond girls—Honey Ryder, Pussy Galore, Kissy Suzuki, Plenty O’Toole, Holly Goodhead, Penelope Smallbone, Xenia Onatopp, ho ho ho—moved from being nearly exclusively damsels in distress or wicked sexpots to occasionally being closer to his equal and even sometimes assisting him (and the “Bond girl groups” that served as background eye candy were mostly cast aside after The Living Daylights while Dame Judy Dench became M). But there were never many of them who escaped the fate of being one of Bond’s fuck trophies.

In Dr. No, there is the requisite bombshell for whom Bond has no use but the extraction of information. Once that mission has been accomplished, he first takes her to bed before he calls the cops to come haul her away. No need to pass up a good piece of tail. In Casino Royale, Bond uses the babe for intelligence-gathering, but not to get his rocks off. He makes her his source, but not his whore.

Of those reviewers making mention of Bond’s newfound respect for women, they mostly cite his expression of those three little words: “I love you.” But any dipshit can say “I love you”—respecting women has never been a prerequisite for that; hell, there are plenty of women and men saying it to other men who have said it without having any respect for the person to whom they were saying it, too. What they’re missing is the subtle commentary in scenes like the one in which Bond delivers to Vesper a sexy dress she’s meant to wear to distract his opposition in a card game, only to find she has delivered to him a tailored jacket he’s meant to wear to fit in at the table. And after making her point that she doesn’t cede the upper hand to anyone, Vesper promptly turns Bond’s request to use her feminine wiles on its head—by walking into the room wearing that dress directly in front of him, instead of his competitors. He admonishes her that she was supposed to distract the other fellows, not him. “Was I?” she asks coyly, making those words for all the world sound like the coolest “Fuck you” ever uttered.

By the time Bond tells her he loves her, we actually believe it, because he’s finally been given a woman who’s worth loving. And so have we.

What’s particularly worth noting about the new Bond is that he’s still smoking hot, cool under pressure, hard as nails, the smartest, wittiest guy in the room. In losing his toys—of both the electronic and flesh-based sort—he hasn’t lost any of the things that really make him Bond. Imagine that.

[Originally posted at Shakespeare's Sister November 20, 2006.]

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March 22nd, 2007
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Viewing 10 Comments

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    The Bond franchise is probably the only subject about which I can indulge in the ridiculous fanboy aesthetic this site specializes in. So much has been written about Bond movies that there is precious little novel commentary to make. I agree that the Brosnan series was almost as much a caricature as the Moore series. But Dalton had previously tried (and failed) to bring Bond back to his roots in Fleming's fiction.

    A feminist deconstruction of Bond is a wholly misplaced emphasis, IMO. The whole point of Bond, whether clown or cold warrior, is escapist fantasy. Of course he beds every woman available -- that's a standard male fantasy, to which plently of women respond, too. Making the Bond girls more substantial may quiet a few PC folks, but that doesn't make the preposterously enjoyable characters ring any truer.
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    craig is excellent as the latest incarnation of bond.

    however, casino royale was a very poor film.

    they need to take tarantino up on his offer to make a bond film.
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    Good stuff. Watching Dr. No (1962) a few years ago, I was struck by the scene in which Bond explains to his two companions in the swamp what techniques they'll need to use to elude the bad guys. The only problem is that we know that Bond has been in that swamp about a day, while his two companions are both resourceful and hard-bitten survivors who have lived there their whole lives. But they are (1) a woman and (2) a black man, so they need the God-like figure of Bond to assist them. It was a film made in a different world, and not a better one.
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    The whole point of Bond, whether clown or cold warrior, is escapist fantasy.

    Indeed. One might note, however, (she suggested politely) that the piece in question ends with the observation that it nonetheless remains an effective escapist fantasy, even having lost the misogyny, which is not, strictly, just about "bed[ding] every woman available." Thusly is the film an effective escapist fantasy for feminist women and men, too. Bond has a new club--and it's not just a boys' club anymore.

    Someone quite cynical might suggest that there are those for whom this particular development is the real rub, as it means not only that Bond is no longer the exclusive propriety of those unbothered by womantoys, but also that he, maddeningly, stands to pass judgment on that history, and, worse yet, on them. (The nerve, after all their years of devotion!) But I am not that cynical person. I am generous, and believe only that some people simply evolve more slowly than others.
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    If my memories serves me, the two Bond films staring Timothy Dalton were the first post-Aids 007 films and it shows. While Connery and Moore slept around with Russian spies like so many salted peanuts -- Dalton only sleeps with one woman in 'Living Daylights' who I think was also his love interst. That shocked me when it came out.

    Never saw even one of the Brosnan films, but the new one has Bond, again, only sleeping with one woman - the love interest.

    I don't agree that Casino Royale was a very poor film. I enjoyed it. It was entertaining. It's James Bond. What do you expect, Oscar worthy material? Sheesh!
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    ralph - 'poor' is only my (and my wife's) opinion; only craig's impressive screen presence saved it for us. with the right vehicle he could become a classic bond. this was not that vehicle, in my opinion.

    i don't expect a gravitas laden script (nor want one for a bond film) but i do expect to be entertained, intrigued, excited - this failed in all those respects; there was no visceral thrill at any stage. it 'looked good' which seems to be the modern film makers priority - all sizzle, no steak.

    indeed, i agree, one shouldn't expect oscars from a bond film: so, why on earth was it nominated for oscars in the first place?

    get tarantino in.

    ;-)
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    Craig was ok - not as good as Connery, better than Moore. The script was slow. The card scenes were endless. Two very well-staged chase scenes were the only thrills. It looks like a 2.5 hour advertisement for fine watches and Fords.

    I have to say that I didn't find this Bond and his lady any more liberated, any more feminist than Connery's bond - sure there was more sensitivity, but the super-man theme was still there.

    The Bourne movies are far better spy flicks these days - they've tried to update Bond but it fails, in my mind.
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    Anyone else notice some dreamlike weird editing lags in the casino section? I think it was after Bond bumps off the two dudes in the stairwell. I was all "Wha? Wha's goin' on?" But enjoyed it immensely anyway despite this little nod-off section which was perhaps intended as a de facto intermission so people in the theatre could take a piss or grab some popcorn.
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    And after making her point that she doesn’t cede the upper hand to anyone, Vesper promptly turns Bond’s request to use her feminine wiles on its head—by walking into the room wearing that dress directly in front of him, instead of his competitors. He admonishes her that she was supposed to distract the other fellows, not him. “Was I?” she asks coyly, making those words for all the world sound like the coolest “Fuck you” ever uttered.

    Hell yeah, I loved this scene. I finally saw this, cramped in an airplane seat, hurtling towards Chicago at an alarming rate, and really, really liked it.

    I think Taratino would be an awful choice to direct a Bond, though. Too much ego.

    Good re-post, Shakes.
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    Thank You

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