Bond is back, and Connery is playing him—for one last, tired, somewhat out-of-shape, slightly graying time. The cars are American, the dames are American, the villains are campy, and the action is weak, but it’s not so bad. It’s got sausage king Jimmy Dean! I follow the threads of a plot where Bond actually does some investigating, albeit one in which he himself overcomplicates things for no reason. I examine Bond’s need to put the whole murdered-wife-being-the-result-of-his-own-incompetence thing behind him. And I also examine why M feels the need to be such a jerk to the guy who repeatedly saved Europe from the most wanted man since Hitler.
I suggest that what is difficult is not necessarily spectacular and that an elephant that hits a jackpot ought to be able to buy its freedom. I examine the wisdom of creating doubles of yourself when you’re holed up in a penthouse you never leave. Also I further explore my theory of Blofeld’s secret pathological need to be a philanthropist.
I can’t remember Denise Richards’ name. I forget to mention that Charles Gray (Blofeld here) was Bond’s wooden-legged-and-doomed contact in You Only Live Twice. I do successfully identify Bond semi-regular Shane Rimmer.
Oh, and I sing part of the theme song. So, you know, don’t miss that.
Start the commentary with the gun barrel sequence, on the countdown.