Monday, November 29, 2004
Why I hate James Bond films:
You’re not really allowed to dislike James Bond. You can try taking a principled stance against the misogyny and racism, but you leave yourself wide-open to accusations of over-earnestness and that you really should just lighten up and enjoy it. So established is the view that these are peerless entertainments, any reservations are viewed as the moanings of a po-faced dullard. The problem is, what’s to enjoy?
By stealth this series has managed to establish a new genre, the “Bond Film”, which leaves it impervious to criticism – they can only be compared to each other. Thus shortcomings are paraded as characteristic features. Terrible characterisation? Feeble plots? Risible dialogue? Complete absence of dramatic tension? We’ve got ‘em all and more besides! Gather round, people, for your latest dollop of flavourless gruel!* Only when non-Bond-like to they rise to anything like mediocrity (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Goldeneye); at their most typical, they are terrible (Die Another Day is a strong candidate for the worst film ever made). Once they may have meant something, the sex and violence was daring. Forty years ago. Surely we don’t need them anymore?
Why do they appeal? This is a curious one. I can see why a small boy would aspire to the image: you get to kiss pretty ladies, shoot a bang-bang-gun and go to grown up places like casinos. But to an adult? He has no friends, no family, nothing to say… He is a collection of snobberies and an ageing letch. His solitude is not romantic, it is the solipsism of the adolescent. Glamour? Don’t think so. Yachts, Martinis, cigars, dinner jackets… This is as sophisticated as Simon Le Bon. And have you ever been to a casino?!
A quick word on the women. Sorry, “girls”. Telling, that one. Why some extremely good actresses have queued up to appear in these excuses is beyond me, as is the fantasy of some women to be like these ciphers. They have little purpose other than looking pretty and providing feed lines to Bond for his excruciating double-entendres.
- If you want smart-talking sexually-driven chat, why not aspire to Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday or Kathryn Hepburn in any number of intelligent comedies for adults?
- Because I also want my dress to be taken off with a magnet.
- Fair enough.
But what do you expect? It’s Bond! I expect not to be insulted. I expect an action film to be exciting – like Die Hard. I expect an escapist film to be entertaining – like Con Air. I expect stories to make sense within the universe described by the film – like The Rock. I do not expect to be insulted by a brazen contempt for the audience. What do *you* expect? Some gadgets, “exotic” locations and beautiful women? Watch one of the old ones then; at least they don’t have John Cleese continuing his relentless quest to piss away all the goodwill he managed to accrue from Monty Python and Fawlty Towers.
*Ummm… says Cubby Broccoli. I guess.
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You’re not really allowed to dislike James Bond. You can try taking a principled stance against the misogyny and racism, but you leave yourself wide-open to accusations of over-earnestness and that you really should just lighten up and enjoy it. So established is the view that these are peerless entertainments, any reservations are viewed as the moanings of a po-faced dullard. The problem is, what’s to enjoy?
By stealth this series has managed to establish a new genre, the “Bond Film”, which leaves it impervious to criticism – they can only be compared to each other. Thus shortcomings are paraded as characteristic features. Terrible characterisation? Feeble plots? Risible dialogue? Complete absence of dramatic tension? We’ve got ‘em all and more besides! Gather round, people, for your latest dollop of flavourless gruel!* Only when non-Bond-like to they rise to anything like mediocrity (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Goldeneye); at their most typical, they are terrible (Die Another Day is a strong candidate for the worst film ever made). Once they may have meant something, the sex and violence was daring. Forty years ago. Surely we don’t need them anymore?
Why do they appeal? This is a curious one. I can see why a small boy would aspire to the image: you get to kiss pretty ladies, shoot a bang-bang-gun and go to grown up places like casinos. But to an adult? He has no friends, no family, nothing to say… He is a collection of snobberies and an ageing letch. His solitude is not romantic, it is the solipsism of the adolescent. Glamour? Don’t think so. Yachts, Martinis, cigars, dinner jackets… This is as sophisticated as Simon Le Bon. And have you ever been to a casino?!
A quick word on the women. Sorry, “girls”. Telling, that one. Why some extremely good actresses have queued up to appear in these excuses is beyond me, as is the fantasy of some women to be like these ciphers. They have little purpose other than looking pretty and providing feed lines to Bond for his excruciating double-entendres.
- If you want smart-talking sexually-driven chat, why not aspire to Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday or Kathryn Hepburn in any number of intelligent comedies for adults?
- Because I also want my dress to be taken off with a magnet.
- Fair enough.
But what do you expect? It’s Bond! I expect not to be insulted. I expect an action film to be exciting – like Die Hard. I expect an escapist film to be entertaining – like Con Air. I expect stories to make sense within the universe described by the film – like The Rock. I do not expect to be insulted by a brazen contempt for the audience. What do *you* expect? Some gadgets, “exotic” locations and beautiful women? Watch one of the old ones then; at least they don’t have John Cleese continuing his relentless quest to piss away all the goodwill he managed to accrue from Monty Python and Fawlty Towers.
*Ummm… says Cubby Broccoli. I guess.
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