To readers and fellow film snobs:
I apologize that I’ve been unable to contribute lately. As a result of some difficult circumstances, I haven’t gathered the energy or state of mind to post more entries, including my promised second half of my ode (and reservations) to Steven Speilberg. However, that will soon change and, as they say, I’ll “get back on the horn”. In the interim, please enjoy my regurgitation of an earlier entry, which will be available on DVD and bluray tomorrow. I appreciate your patience and kind words. Thanks again for reading!
–Chris
“Sometimes the old ways are the best”. Amen, 007. After 50 years, Bond’s worse for wear, but still trucking. We’ve had numerous “reboots” (or is it “reimagining’s”? I can’t tell.). But Bond has returned to the basics: drinking martinis, driving Aston Martins, and exchanging puns with Q, albeit a younger, less tenured incarnation who resembles Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock more so than Desmond Llewelyn. Yet, when Bond’s 23rd outing concluded, we’re pretty much guaranteed that 007 is here to stay–and true to form. Surprisingly, I couldn’t have been more pleased.
Things start off rocky for 007 with an outstanding series of action pieces that concludes on top of a train roaring through narrow tunnels and even involves a mounted land digger (Who knew Bond worked construction!) used to bridge the severed cars. It’s at this point that Bond’s partner, Eve (Naomie Harris) tailing in pursuit, tells M (the always graceful Judi Dench) via radio, “Words cannot describe this.” I can’t imagine how the screenwriters transcribed it either!
The train ride ends with Bond apparently killed by friendly fire. MI6 is compromised and attacked by a disgruntled ex-agent Silva (Javier Bardem). Bond returns from the dead, reinstates, grabs a pair of Q’s handy gadgets and travels to exotic locales like Shanghai, which includes a surreal fight at the top of the neon-lit skyscrapers, photographed with beauty by Coen Bros. regular, Roger Deakens. But the real joy comes when Bond circles back to London and engages his wits and brawn to protect M from Silva’s vengeance. The two inevitably retreat to a final duel that leads to some rare intimate moments with 007 and a hint of a back story. Hint: It involves the film title!
Directed by Sam Mendes (American Beauty, Road to Perdition), Skyfall finds its footing after the meandering second entry of the Daniel Craig era, restoring the character highlights that were so prominent in Casino Royale as well as retaining some suave action pieces that aren’t lost in an editing frenzy (credit veteran Stuart Baird). The biggest joy is seeing Craig don the clean-cut tux and disheveled soot look with equal glee, parrying waves of attacks with a subtle wink to the audience. There are also loving tributes to the Bonds of the past that are much more amusing than Die Another Day’s sad attempt to hearken back to 19 previous films. Whether it’s Q’s acknowledgement of the ridiculous exploding pens or Bond’s infamous red button on his transmission, there are plenty of old-school splendor that reaches a crescendo in the final five minutes.
Skyfall is one of the best Bonds ever made. It walks a fine-line between 21st century villainy and menace with pure tongue-in-cheek extremism that has become its signature staple. Bond chases women, but is more considerate, only bedding women while remaining hands-off (out of respect, honor, fear? Who knows?) to some. The villain continues to gloat, although his vendetta is purely personal; his grander scheme is whispered, as if to imply it’s of no consequence. Bardem literally chews up the screen the moment his steps into it, strutting, bellowing and winking his way to a rare Oscar nomination for an action feature. The dialog drips with innuendos, even between two characters you’d least expect, which shows the saga fully acknowledges the small modifications necessary for the turning tides of the 21st century.
Yet, Bond has relinquished its previous attempts to move away from the jokes. Skyfall embraces them. There are no hyperbolic villains. No “Oddjob” or “Jaws”, but the cartoony antics remain in full form with Bardem’s slightly underutilized deformity and his ingenious schemes to undermine Bond and company. Even with the Bond’s new love for Heineken (neither shaken or stirred) and the notable absence of a definable “Bond girl”, the formula remains without showing signs of going stale–even after 50 years. So, with a non-Heineken beer in hand, here’s to many more Bond adventures, shaken or stirred.
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