From the film’s opening credits – in which a naked woman engages in sexual intercourse with an octopus, it’s clear that “Spectre” has fallen prey to the same dumb myopia of its predecessors. With “Spectre,” however, Mendes and Logan regress, relying on old habits and prehistoric ideas about gender. The Bond films have never been known for their just portrayal of women, but, in recent years, the franchise has made genuine advances. Blood, sex, boom, repeat: Bond’s issues – physical and psychological – have been dramatically toned down since the days of “Skyfall,” and the result is equal parts disappointing and tedious.Īlso disappointing is Logan’s inevitably old-fashioned understanding of sex. There are twists peppered throughout John Logan’s (“Gladiator”) script and a handful of dazzling set pieces (the aforementioned helicopter battle seems most suited for water cooler chatter), but it’s all strung together with the predictability of a cuckoo clock. The spy gone rogue is a stale trope in its own right, but coupled with some ambiguous pressure from the higher-ups, a villain who lurks in boardrooms rendered in chiaroscuro, and an unstoppable minion (Dave Bautista’s Hinx), “Spectre” feels like a grand cliché. It’s all rather ostentatious, and rather tired. As such, it’s not long before the bullets begin to fly and the fires to rage. Ruled with an iron first by the equally shady Franz Oberhauser (Christoph Waltz), Spectre aims to be Bond’s most ruthless opponent to date. Instead he travels to Rome for Sciarra’s funeral, where he begins profiling a sinister organization by the name of Spectre. Coerced by new management (Andrew Scott’s C), M (Ralph Fiennes) commands Bond to take a much-needed vacation.
One frantic helicopter ride later, 007 is out of commission. He’s slick as ever – suit finely pressed, hair perfectly coiffed - but things soon escalate as they so often do. Bond is tailing a man called Marco Sciarra on a beyond-the-grave assignment from the deceased M (Judi Dench). “Spectre” opens amid a sumptuously staged Day of the Dead celebration in Mexico City - marked by skeletal costumes and an appropriately percussive score. “Spectre” is classic James Bond, but as “Skyfall” made apparent, Bond at his best can be far more than a lazy icon. Today, Mendes’s “Spectre” reeks of sexism and senseless violence, of foolish staging and cheap screenwriting. Craig’s Bond has grown old – his piercing blues eyes receding ever further into his brow – but he has yet to grow up. In turn, “Spectre,” the immediate successor to “Skyfall,” feels very much like a step in the wrong direction. With “Skyfall,” Craig and director Sam Mendes changed the game: They introduced a Bond with blemishes and imperfections, a Bond plagued by the soreness of age, a Bond that embraced tradition, but resisted the influences of a dated canon. Bond is a brand, a flavor of entertainment grounded in a decades-long cinematic narrative, yet resolved to produce something inventive and spectacular.įrom this tradition emerges Sam Mendes’s “Spectre,” Daniel Craig’s fourth and (reportedly) final outing for the franchise launched by Albert Broccoli and Harry Saltzman back in 1963.Īs Bond, Craig has brought life to the series, rejecting the insipid idiocy of Pierce Brosnan’s 007 for something deeper and ultimately more resonant.
As the world’s most recognizable agent, 007 plays by his own rules (guns, girls, gadgets, etc…). James Bond is classic as they come a character so iconic his movies needn’t bear his name.