Em for Movies - Spectre

I have mixed (shaken, not stirred) feelings about Spectre.

There are certain basic expectations for a Bond movie: exotic locations, crazy stunts, a bloated theme song, incredibly sexy cars, one-dimensional women, over-the-top villains, gadgetry, cheesy one-liners, a torture scene, and at least one massive explosion. The thing that separates some of the great Bond films (Goldfinger, The Spy Who Loved Me, From Russia With Love and Casino Royale) from the duds is how well the filmmakers make use of or subvert these classic elements.

The film’s opening is beautiful, layered, and very exciting. It immediately fills the quota for exotic location and crazy stunts with a quick, competent, suave sense of style.

Despite topping the UK music charts, Sam Smith’s theme song “Writing’s on the Wall” was patently boring. Smith’s high pitched vocals failed to create a sense of scale or menace, which following the fabulous Day of the Dead opening sequence left me with the dreadful premonition that the best part of the movie was over. After the intermission of bilious, self-important crooning the film continued, but seemed to have missed a step.

Credit where it's due, the Aston Martni DB10 was sex on wheels. Cameos of the classic Aston Martin DB5, a sleek prototype Jaguar C-X75, and the sophisticated vintage Rolls Royce Silver Wraith were marvellous. On a per car basis, Spectre exceeded my expectations.  

The women, in true Bond style, have barely more personality or purpose than the cars. Monica Bellucci is one of the most beautiful women in film. Ever. She speaks five languages (not including the Aramaic in The Passion of the Christ) and manages to convey grace and eloquence in all of them. As the oldest ever Bond girl at 50, I had foolishly expected her to be something more than a “you killed my husband, but I never liked him anyway” fuck. Le sigh. So I pinned my hopes on Léa Seydoux. Mr. White refers to her as bright, but she is laughably inept-at best someone to be continuously rescued, at worst a prize for good behaviour. Back in the day when Bond girls were given names like Honey Rider, or the unforgiveable Plenty O’Toole there was a sense of purposeful absurdity if not introspection to it. With characters like Lucia Sciarra and Madeleine Swann, you’d almost expect more. You’d be wrong.

The villain was not a world-class assassin, nor (as I had briefly hoped) that assassin’s vengeful widow. With a legacy in mind and Spectre’s inflated sense of everything, the familiarly ominous Mr. White of Quantum is no longer sufficient opposition. Instead we have SPECTRE, which has a seriously cool logo but not much flair for real villainy. The titular evil organization chose to meet in an atmospheric Roman venue (instead of a volcano lair) that by happenstance is easier to infiltrate than the majority of the city’s trashier nightclubs. They report on their nefarious plots like corporate pencil pushers, and cower in fear as their soft-spoken leader tries to seem ominous but is more like a petulant child.

Following the pared-down trend of gadgetry in the latest incarnation of Bond, Spectre runs fairly light on the spy toys. With Q’s workshop looking more like a dank storage locker than a government-funded tech department, we couldn’t really hope for much.

The most memorable one-liner in Spectre was delivered with aplomb by Ralph Fiennes’s M, to my utter delight. Though by the time it came around (more than 2 hours in) my sense of humour and interest in witty repartee was nearly numb.

The torture scene had neither visceral brutality of Casino Royal, nor the psychological and emotional resonance of Skyfall. It was over-elaborate, inexact and alarmingly ineffective.

And the massive explosion? Well, the Guinness Book of World Records confirmed that Spectre featured the largest on-screen explosion yet. Not just in a Bond film, in any film. Though I don’t recall thinking that it was anything special at the time, which speaks volumes.

When expectations are not exceeded, or treated with a self-aware sense of style, then all you have is a mediocre Bond movie that will fade into obscurity like Quantum of Solace, Diamonds are Forever or Tomorrow Never Dies.

If you were to ignore the fact that this is a James Bond film, and all of the wonderful associations that get tied into that, you have a frankly ridiculous movie that I would normally have lambasted. But it’s still Bond. It’s like watching a cherished nephew score a goal against his own net. You have to cheer, right? He scored. 

To change metaphors, I give this film a dirty martini: you’ll like it if you like martinis. If not, it is harsh, clichéd, expensive, time consuming, and tastes a little like feet.

 

Cheers,

Em