Unbreakable Bond
He's a horny, trigger-happy dinosaur. Thank goodness.
When my family lived in Port Moresby in my youth, we spent a lot of weekends at the Port Moresby Yacht Club (“the Yachtie”). It’s now the grand-sounding Royal Papua Yacht Club but I remember it as a two-story building maybe made of cinder blocks, and the existence of “yachts” was technically true, but not at all the reason anyone went there.
In that era, the Yachtie was—like a lot of places in the very odd city that was the capital of Papua New Guinea—basically a white-people-only social club. But I distinctly remember three things about it.1 First, it had a tabletop Pac-Man machine with a missing knob, which meant any serious session left a blister on your index finger from it rubbing against the exposed screw thread at the end of the shaft.2
Second, it had the best Chinese food in town. My late dad—whose appetite and enjoyment of food could generously be described as modest—would inhale its “beef spare ribs,” and spent the next three decades of his life on a futile quest to find an equivalent. If only he’d lived to realize the dream: it’s Panda Express’ Beijing beef.
And, finally, it was in 1982 where I saw the first real movie I remember. The Yachtie would remove the dining tables and set up chairs to show films on a makeshift screen, and one dragged me away from the Pac-Man machine: The Spy Who Loved Me. Talk about an eye-opener for a nine year old: peak Roger Moore; the stunning Barbara Bach; Jaws (!); crazy stunts (Bond downhill skiing? Over a cliff? Saved by a Union Jack parachute?); a Lotus Esprit that becomes a submarine; an underwater lair for the typically megalomaniacal villain. Everything was extravagantly exotic, which has always been part of the point when it comes to Bond films.
A couple of weekends ago, the woman who a colleague delightedly calls “Elevator Girl” treated me to 007 Science: Inventing the World of James Bond, an exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry Chicago. It was a day-after-my-birthday present and it was fantastic: a real look inside how the films are made, complete will all manner of famous gadgets (including, yes, that Lotus Esprit).
But before the exhibit, a confession: she’d never seen a Bond film. I don’t think that’s entirely unusual for a lot of women, who are generally less action-movie oriented than those of us with Y chromosomes. And I admit I was excited by the prospect of introducing Elevator Girl to the world of 007 to ground her in its key elements ahead of seeing the exhibition. But which film first?
After The Spy Who Loved Me, I’d caught up with the Bond oeuvre pretty quickly. The early 80s were still reliable Roger Moore: Octopussy came out in 1983 (with a cameo by Vijay Amritraj, which was a highlight for this tennis mad 10 year old), followed by A View to a Kill in 1985, with Grace Jones, Christopher Walken, and a banging Duran Duran theme song. Moore seemed about 150 years old (he was actually 58) and it was clearly his wobbly 007 swan song, but it was over the top and typically entertaining.
In the meantime, I’d caught up with the back catalog. All the Sean Connery films, naturally—especially the raw physicality of his classic trifecta From Russia With Love (1963), Goldfinger (1964), and Thunderball (1965). Aussie George Lazenby popped up in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service in 1969, proving a complete inability to act doesn’t necessarily sink a movie. OHMSS is arguably the best Bond movie plot, helped immeasurably by Diana Rigg and the fact it presents a critical inflection point in 007’s life: he falls in love and marries, only for Rigg to be immediately assassinated by uber-villain Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s henchwoman, Irma Bunt.3 That’ll teach Bond to be vulnerable.
Actually, this turn of events was no surprise because I’d been devouring Ian Fleming’s novels. They are, it must be said, very much of their time (if #metoo had ever appeared, it would have been a woman saying that as she joined Bond in bed for a threesome). But the writing is sharp, percussive, and propulsive. The novels are short—Fleming bashed one out on vacation in Jamaica each year—but gripping, and Bond is light years from Moore’s portrayal. He’s a wounded orphan, a callous and ruthless “blunt instrument.” Yet he’s also driven by a deep sense of loyalty to the organization that has become his family and, in turn, the fading empire it’s defending.4
So, back to the big question: what movie for someone’s introduction to 007? Much as I love Timothy Dalton—he was closest to Fleming’s vision, and the prototype for the grittier Bond that emerged with Daniel Craig—I had to go for something recent. Craig’s five-movie arc is uneven but so, so satisfying, and it’s hard to choose between its three standouts: Casino Royale (2006), Skyfall (2012), and No Time to Die (2021).
But … it was Skyfall and, truth be told, it wasn’t really close. Directed by Sam Mendes, it has Javier Bardem as the villain and Craig left for dead (and assumed to be) until his sense of loyalty and duty pulls him back to London. There’s the return of Moneypenny and Q (a great Ben Whishaw), the arrival of Ralph Fiennes and, of course, the relationship between Bond and his boss, M (Judi Dench), not to mention the fantastic Albert Finney reunited with the scared boy he once knew, now a man in full.
So, we watched Skyfall. When it ended, Elevator Girl immediately asked which one would be next, which I struggled to answer while choking back tears from (spoiler alert) M dying in Bond’s arms. It was nothing compared with my tears at the end of No Time To Die, though, where I mourned the end of Craig’s run as much as (another spoiler alert) his decision life wasn’t worth living without being able to touch the woman he loved and the child they’d created.
All of which is to say, I’m not sure which Bond we’ll watch next. I suspect we’ll travel back to the 1960s for something classic but, of course, I also know it doesn’t really matter—she’s going to watch every single one in the years ahead. That includes whatever else comes, of course. Rumors persist that Aaron Taylor-Johnson is being fitted for the tuxedo, and all 007 films end with the same promise: James Bond will return. Thank goodness for that.
A note about whatever this is …
After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.
Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.
Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.
Let’s face it: I’m 51. Memories fade and the mind plays tricks, so while these seem distinct to me, they may or may not align with reality. For a while, I thought the movie was For Your Eyes Only, but that was released in 1981—and there’s no way the Yachtie was screening a movie just a year after its premiere (The Spy Who Loved Me was released in 1977). But both movies feature the Lotus Esprit … talk about confusing!
That sounds way dirtier than it is. Here’s a diagram. And I did recently crank some high scores on a Pac-Man machine at my office holiday party so … worth it?
Disappointingly, Rigg is mowed down by a machine gun, which seems positively pedestrian compared to the poison-tipped shoe dagger Rosa Klebb wields in From Russia With Love. The filmmakers totally phoned it in.
Fleming actually laid out his vision for Bond in a memo to legendary 007 movie producer Cubby Broccoli.
Really enjoyed this one, Luke!