In my last blog, I talked about how much I hate shopping at Costco. This time, I'm going to talk about how much I love James Bond movies. Before you call your lawyer, please read the disclaimer at the top of the page: I am under no legal obligation to entertain anyone but myself with this blog. Okay? Let's proceed.
I've been a fan of James Bond since I first watched Roger Moore unzip a lady's dress with his magnetic watch in Live and Let Die on TV back in 1976. I had no idea what a gay Englishman was going to do once he got that dress off, but my eight-year-old mind was already hooked. By the time the crocodiles in the speedboats came along (I may be remembering that wrong; hey, I was eight), James Bond was firmly cemented in my mind as the guy I was going to be when I grew up. Later, of course, when I discovered Sean Connery's movies, I quickly determined that he was the guy I was going to be, and the other guy was going to be my butler.
These were the good old days, when TV stations used to run movies on weekend afternoons (this was long before Netflix came along and gave us infinite movies to scroll through until we finally say to hell with it and go to bed), and often I'd be lucky enough to catch a Bond marathon on a rainy Sunday, which I guess was the analog version of binge-watching, except you couldn't pause the thing if you really had to pee. By the time I was in my teens, I had caught up to Bond in real time, just in time to see A View To A Kill in the old Paramount Theatre downtown. Sure, it was no Dr. No (Dr. No-No?), but it was neat to sit in the theatre and watch an old lady in a tux match wits with Ninja Grace Jones and the guy from Pulp Fiction with the watch up his bum, all while trying to convince Sheena, Queen of the Jungle that he wasn't a queen himself. The villain's fiendish plan was to dump California into the ocean, thereby destroying Silicon Valley and killing dozens of nerds.
Wait, I'm not finished! Christopher Walken, obviously, was far from the best of the Bond villains - that title belonged firmly to one Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the scar-eyed, cat-stroking megalomaniac who appeared in the six best Bond films and three Austin Powers movies. Blofeld was a super-smart mad scientist and arms dealer who founded SPECTRE, the international spy organization. Unfortunately, he wasn't always played by Donald Pleasance, so he wasn't supremely cool in every single appearance (the official explanation was Blofeld often underwent plastic surgery to remain anonymous; might have been easier if he just stopped trying to take over the world, but who am I to judge?) but he was still the epitome of what a Bond villain was supposed to be: pure evil, with grandiose ambitions.
Timothy Dalton replaced a rickety Roger Moore as Bond for a couple of stints, followed by Pierce Brosnan (whom the great Roger Ebert once called "James Bond's valet") in a series of increasingly ridiculous movies about invisible cars and sword fights with aging fame whores. But even so, they maintained the tradition of EVIL villains - ones who wanted to burn the world, or plunge it into darkness, or blow up China, or run the Confederate flag up every flagpole in America. These weren't your run-of-the-mill criminals. They weren't drug dealers (well, except for License To Kill -dammit, there goes my point!); they were larger than life.
The Bond franchise died after Die Another Day, which was both Brosnan's finale as the hero and the most ironically named movie ever. The character languished in studio hell for several years before someone finally watched Batman Begins, then snapped his fingers and and yelled "REBOOT!" (obviously within earshot of whoever was racking their brains trying to decide what to do with the Star Trek franchise). With that, the powers that be decided it was time to create an all-new James Bond, one who was cool, and edgy, and dark, and gritty, and realistic, and blonde. What do you get when you put all that into a blender with a Costco-sized jar of protein powder, a bottle of lemon gin and just a dash of Old Spice? This guy:
I, along with everybody else in the world, was a bit skeptical about the choice of relative unknown Daniel Craig as the new Bond in Casino Royale, but dutiful fan that I am, I played along. And I couldn't have been happier. In one fell swoop, that one movie made up for three wishy-washy James Bonds and a slow, sad descent into decrepitude, and breathed new life into an iconic character who had been buried under a pile of hair mousse and girdles for the better part of three decades. This Bond was tough. He didn't shoot lasers while skiing down the Alps, he ran you down and kicked you in the junk, then stood over you, sneering while you vomited up blood. This was the "blunt instrument" of the original Ian Fleming novels. In short, this was what James Bond was always supposed to be, even more so than the Sean Connery days. Yeah, that's right, I said it. Now I wanted to be this guy, and Sean Connery could be my butler. Roger Moore could be my nanny.
Casino was followed by Quantum of Solace, then Skyfall. Both of them were great, though they didn't quite reach the gold standard of the first one, and a fourth, Spectre, is expected in November. But the more I read about Spectre, the more I felt something... I don't know, off in my feelings about the first three films. It was hard to define at first, a thought that I just couldn't quite grab hold of, like that last piece of Jell-O on your dessert plate at a Chinese buffet. After much reflection (and a not-inconsiderable amount of beer), I finally figured out what was bugging me: the villains in the reboot movies are lame. I was so hypnotized by Craig's performance, and the overall style of the movies, I didn't notice it at the time. But when you take a close look at them, the bad guys aren't fit to clean Blofeld's cat's litterbox.
Let's break it down:
CASINO ROYALE - LE CHIFFRE
Before I start, I want to make it clear that I'm not criticizing the actor, Mads Mikkelsen, who does a great job of making viewers hungry every week on NBC's Hannibal. It's the character I'm taking issue with, to wit: Why, exactly, is Le Chiffre worthy of the Bond pantheon of villains? The guy's a fricking investment banker. Sure, he invests for terrorists - which are vaguely alluded to in the film but never actually named - and handles their money. But he's really just a henchman with a nice suit and a pocket protector. What next? Is Bond going to go after ISIL's accountant? Boko Haram's notary public? And Le Chiffre's strongest "bad guy" traits are asthma, a gambling addiction, and the worst case of pink eye in recorded history. That could be any substitute teacher you ever had, for crying out loud.
And while we're on the subject, the plot for the first half of the movie doesn't make sense. Le Chiffre tries to make money by buying stock in an airline, and then selling that stock before sabotaging a plane - a move that will bankrupt the company whose stock he's trying to manipulate. Despite the fact the company's stock, which he owns, is going up. How, exactly, do you make money by wrecking a successful company that you've invested in? "Buy low, sell high" is the accepted wisdom on Wall Street, not "buy high, drive company into toilet." A couple of people online have tried to advance the theory that Le Chiffre was shorting stocks, which I still don't get. Why sell perfectly good stocks so you can buy them at a cheaper price when the stocks are already at a high price? Even if that was true, and I'm not saying it is, the writers are expecting an awful lot of brainpower from the audience. And let's remember, they turned the game of baccarat from the novel into Texas Hold 'Em because they thought viewers would be too dumb to figure out the rules.
A QUANTUM OF SOLACE - MR. GREEN
In the sequel to Casino Royale, we're introduced to Quantum, a group of international Rotarians who use their power and money to influence governments. It starts out promising until the bad guys get whittled down to Mr. Green. HOW IS THIS GUY A BOND VILLAIN? He's about as intimidating as Joel Fleishman from Northern Exposure minus the Brooklyn attitude. His evil powers consist of giving you that fake "crazy stare" that every little wiener in the history of high school has used in an attempt to get out of a fight with a bully. Admit it - you want to bully him right now.
And after Mr. Green leads Bond on a merry, revenge-fueled chase, what do we discover is his dastardly plot?
He's stealing water from Bolivia. That's right, he's hoarding all the water in one of the poorest, most universally ignored countries in the world, creating a drought so that Bolivians will have to buy water from him. This is a country where people can't even afford quinoa anymore because we North Americans want it all in our chicken salads. They're so poor, they buy their dirt on layaway. And ninety-nine percent of the world's population couldn't find it on a map, even if all the other countries were blank and there was a big BOLIVIA label across it. Mr. Green's plan is like starting a gang in a homeless shelter so you can extort money from the occupants. Where's the return on investment? Maybe Mr. Green graduated from the same school of economics as Le Chiffre.
But even he's better than...
SKYFALL - RAOUL SILVA
Again, I respect Javier Bardem as an actor, and I understand that he was trying to go over the top with Silva's character, but it all just went a little - well, weird. In his defense, he only had about ten minutes at the end of the film to try to develop his character, after we spend the better part of two hours watching Bond dig things out of his body and sit through a really uncomfortable job interview. But when Silva shows up, he really shows up. And you know what? I can totally get behind a bad guy who's a cross between Ricardo Montalban and Rip Taylor - I'm as pro-rainbow as they come - but even I was freaked out when Silva runs his hand up Bond's thigh. Nobody ever said a villain can't be sexually ambiguous (see the aforementioned Ninja Grace Jones) but even the Bond girls have never gone south of the equator on camera.
The problem is the ridiculousness of the character's motivation. Let's leave aside the gaping plot holes, like the perfectly timed subway train derailment, and the fact that I'm pretty sure Britain's MI6 doesn't hire Spanish nationals as spies, even if their grandmothers did own an island off the coast of Ireland (what?). You're still left with a villain who is basically trying to get revenge on his and James Bond's boss, M, because when he was a spy, he had to swallow a cyanide capsule - like it says in his damn job description - after he was captured by China. When it doesn't kill him but instead hideously disfigures his face, he goes crazy and sets his sights on killing her. And blowing up MI6. And creating a criminal empire. And feeling up Bond's leg.
My point is this: You tried to kill yourself with a cyanide capsule and failed, so you decide to put in a herculean effort of will to stay alive, despite the collapse of your frigging skull, and devote yourself to a decade-long revenge plot? Why not just finish the job some other way and put yourself out of your misery? I'm sure your Chinese captors would have been happy to oblige! It would have saved them thousands on dental work alone! And it would have allowed me to watch No Country For Old Men again without snickering, dammit!
Sorry, I'm starting to rant now. With all this said, I'll be first in line for Spectre because I'm still a James Bond megafan, despite the lame villains. A bad Bond movie is still exponentially better than the best Twilight movie, after all, and a little part of me is always going to be that eight-year-old kid who thought James Bond was the coolest guy that ever walked the face of the earth.
And I'm still waiting for the reappearance of that oh-so-cool magnetic watch.
I hate going to Costco. I hate it with a passion. I hate it with the kind of hate usually reserved for jihads, Westboro Baptist funeral protestors, and toddlers under siege from platefuls of overcooked broccoli. I hate it like Kanye West hates everything except Kim Kardashian and the sound of his own voice.
I recognize that I'm in the minority here. My brother-in-law, for example, reveres Costco so much he calls it the Happiest Place On Earth, apparently oblivious to the very real threat of Disney's lawyers drilling a hole in his heart and stuffing it full of lawsuits. He loves Costco so much, he and his family will seek it out whenever they go on vacation. Hawaii, Florida, California, Mogadishu (okay, I may have got that last one wrong) - every destination on the map. I've never really sat down with him and asked WHY he loves it so much - I've always just assumed it had something to do with the fact he's just slightly smaller than Shaquille O'Neal and Costco sells foot-long hotdogs for less than the cost of a pack of gum.
It might also have something to do with the fact he's tall enough to see over the teeming throng of sweaty humanity that I, in all my Tom Cruise-sized glory, get to trudge alongside cheek-by-jowl while I'm there. I've never been to India, but I imagine it's a lot like Costco: a billion people packed into an area the size of your high school gym. Except I'm pretty sure the people in India are actually GOING somewhere, as opposed to wandering around aimlessly, picking over books and golf shirts and hundred-packs of lentil soup, all the while wondering if they shouldn't maybe buy that ridiculously huge garden shed they saw, because it's SUCH a good deal, and you know, it might not be here next week.
I'd also be willing to bet that the people of India don't just park their their cars (or their scooters, or whatever it is they drive over there) at random angles in the street while they go off to see if someone over there has some mangoes on sale. And even if they do, one thing is for certain: they're not wearing sweatpants while they do it.
Before you even get in the store, the place has you in its clutches. There's no parking spaces within a hectare of the door (I have no idea how big a hectare is, but I'm guessing it's a lot) so, unless you camped out the night before, you get to start your wandering before you even get inside. Once you get to the door, they direct you into a pair of chutes, not unlike a feedlot or a slaughterhouse. But look, there's a middle-aged woman in a hair-net offering me a piece of sausage-like substance on a tooth pick (something I'm almost positive doesn't happen in India)! That more than makes up for the fact that I PAID GOOD MONEY JUST FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF WALKING THROUGH THE DAMN DOOR. And apparently, Costco cards are now the equivalent of government ID, since I had to show proof of residence to get one. Are there really a lot of people sneaking in from nations outside the Costco commonwealth, trying to put one over on the company by paying to shop at their stores? Those crafty devils! THIS is how ISIS is going to destroy us, sheeple!
I digress. Eventually, your cart will be filled with pillow-sized bags of kale and thirteen hardcover books you hadn't heard of before you got to Costco, and dozens of other things except the items you originally came for, and FINALLY you can leave. Except you can't, because, no matter what time of day it is, or what day of the week it is, or how many customers there are in the store, the tills will be lined up so deep that the image of the person currently at the cash register will actually exist slightly in the future, because it takes several seconds for the light reflected from the clasp of her wallet to reach your eyes. You'll wait in lines that twist and curve and turn back on themselves like switchbacks, all the while trying to shuffle your cart out of the way of that poor young mom who just needs to get a box of 240 Quaker granola bars to feed the hungry, wailing children hanging off her appendages like remora fish.
Sometime later - I don't know exactly how long, I usually measure it by how many shades darker my beard scruff is than when I came in - you find yourself on the other side of the till. You can actually see the door! Except between you and it is the concession. Sure, the pizza tastes like cardboard covered in tomatoes and lint balls, and the hot dogs are so full of saturated fat that you start breaking out in pimples just from the smell, and besides, you ate a full lunch before you left home - but God, it's just SO CHEAP.
You manage to shake it off and begin your final leg of wandering towards the exit. But wait! The person with the bingo dobber has to inspect your purchases before you can leave. Can someone please explain this to me? How did I manage to shoplift a gallon-jar of cashews? In my pants? And how did I get it out of a store that actively blocks you from leaving unless you're going through a till? But let's say I DID pull it off - would I be stupid enough to put something I stole INTO MY CART for Dobber Dan to see? And all the while, flashing in my head like a neon sign that I can't unplug, are the words: I PAID TO SHOP HERE.
Have I mentioned I hate going to Costco?