Roger Moore is back for his last rodeo as James Bond! It’s a rather slow, somewhat dull, kind of haphazard adventure filled with lovely women and also Grace Jones!
Honestly, there’s not a lot to say about this one. The whole formula is a bit tired and threadbare. I try to make the best of it and have fun by noting how stopping a guy who is making EMP-proof chips available to the world is kind of a jerk goal for British Intelligence. I point out how Zorin is awfully clumsy about keeping his activities quiet when he puts his name on every chip and has them packed for shipping in his basement.
Bond is back and Connery is playing him! It’s the one-off Thunderball remake of sorts that comes, as all great things do, courtesy of a contentious lawsuit. It’s the goulash of Bond films, with a little of everything and all, surprisingly, in about the right measure. The music is bad but the gadgets are good, the babes are bodacious, and the villain is batshit crazy with a hint of whimsy.
I analyze the differences and striking similarities in the structure and plotting, compare it to other Bond films, assess the Bondiness of Connery’s 12-years-later Bond, and question why he’s now working for the Jackal.
Bond is back again for lucky number 13! Yes, it’s still Roger Moore cranking out the cheeky remarks. This time, 007 must stop a ring of international smugglers/circus folk auctioning off—and buying back—priceless Russian treasures, altho why he cares I don’t know. They’re not British treasures, after all. The women are beautiful—except for the creepy one whom I suspect to be a snake in a wig—and the villains and stunts are passable if not spectacular. The sets are likewise lacking in scale, but at least the plot and plot devices are mostly believable.
I examine the origin of “Octopussy” and whether or not she’s a stronger character than other Bond women—such as the other Bond woman who looked exactly like her—and also the wisdom of taking several minutes to put on clown makeup when it leaves you with a mere 90 seconds to save a big chunk of Germany.
Bond is back! This time, the film makers mine the depths of Fleming’s short stories and cobble something together that is… pretty dang good, actually. There are no gadgets, the girls are not great, and there are no fantastic Ken Adam sets, but there’s also nothing much to really hate—except the idiotic Blofeld appearance at the beginning.
I examine the construction of the plot, defend it against those who say it’s too much like From Russia with Love, and complain that Locque isn’t much of a villain. I lament the birth defect that left Carole Bouquet with a non-functioning forehead and a mustache nearly as luxurious as Topol’s, as well as whatever it is that makes Lynn-Holley Johnson so annoying and seven years too old to be to young for James Bond. And I lament the fact the Roger Moore is just too old to run up all those steps.
Jaws is back, and Bond fights him! (again and again…) It’s the eleventh Bond, and I admire the sights, the women, the stunts, the women’s revealing wardrobe, the model shots, the model-actresses, and the incredible Ken Adam sets.
I don’t do much car spotting or gun spotting because Bond drives boats and fights hand-to-hand pretty much the whole movie. *sigh* The comedy is slapsticky (vaudevillian, to be exact), and the story is a loose collection of great set pieces connected by cardboard arrows. (Venetian glass? Go to Venice! Crates that say “Rio”? Go to Rio! Toxin from the Amazon? Go to the Amazon! Space shuttles? Go to space!) Plus, the villain’s plan is basically the same as in the last movie (kill everyone, clean up the corpses with bulldozers, repopulate). Still, I don’t think it’s the worst Bond of them all. (Your mileage may vary.)
It’s the heart-wrenching tale of chance meetings between wounded hearts, daring to reach out, daring to trust again. Also, a 7-foot-tall metal-jawed psychopath bites people to death while his boss captures submarines. Join me for the tenth Bond film and one of the very best. This remains my favorite, but that doesn’t mean it’s perfect.
I compare it to the book that it’s nothing like. I thrill at the adventure and swoon at the passion (well, cleavage). I mock the acting and disco music. I point out the—ahem—”re-use” of previous Bond plot devices. And I marvel at the incredible plan/backup plan/backup backup plan that Stromberg seems to repeatedly employ.
Bond’s ninth outing is Moore’s second. Join me as I analyze the story, the girls, the cars, the gadgets—by which I mean the fake nipple—and the seemingly endless, awful JW Pepper scenes. However, I actually find myself defending the film against the haters and end up enjoying it fairly well on its own merits, at least a fair amount more than I did Live and Let Die.
I point out the not-so-subtle foreshadowing, analyze Scaramanga as a villain and Andrea as an ally. I try to figure out what country we’re in, what the purpose of the custom golden gun is, and what Nick Nack’s motivation is. I enjoy Maud Adams and Brit Eckland, and I positively adore the half-sunken ship secret spy office.
Bond is back in number eight, and Moore is playing him for the first time. Everything is different, except that the cars are American again, the dames are American again, and the action is kind of lame again. But—hey—the bad guys are black this time!
I mock Felix Leiter and Whisper and condemn Rosie Carver and writer Tom Mankiewicz. I analyze Mr. Big’s ruthlessly over-efficient gang machine. I mock Paul McCartney’s grammar (but fail to mention how Bond dissed the Beatles in Goldfinger). I compare the film to the earlier entries, to the book, to blaxploitation movies, and to Smokey and the Bandit. I praise Seymour, Kotto, and Moore, but mostly I complain that this just isn’t one of the better entries. I take a break from obsessively identifying cars to obsessively differentiating between crocodiles and alligators.
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.
Bond is back again and Lazenby plays him. Join me as I investigate the one and only appearance of George Lazenby in the role and try to figure out what the hell is going on. I mock the nonsensical missions-that-aren’t-missions, gadgets-that-aren’t-gadgets, and Blofeld’s plan-that-isn’t-a-plan that amounts to hypno-zombie debutantes with poison spray bottles.
I analyze Blofeld’s weird philanthropic tendencies, Tracy’s unexplained suicidal tendencies, and her father’s henchmen’s random homicidal tendencies. And I analyze Bond’s cozy relationship with the self-confessed second-biggest crime lord in Europe.
I obsessively identify the various cars. I try to imagine a less likely man to pretend to be a homosexual in a skirt and frilly blouse. I try to identify the moment Bond genuinely falls in love. And I try to identify the moment Bond realizes that his sex addiction has allowed a known international terror-extortionist to successfully launch his plan.
