Bondfoolery

I love the Bond films too dearly to put them in a numbered list. It’s not that I don’t have my preferences; I very much do, but the line between my favorite Bond movie and my second favorite is blurry at best. However, being a severe nerd with at least mild OCD, I love to sort things. And so, at Scott “@lateandsoon” Rosann’s behest, I shall attempt to categorize them for you now.

(Of course, these are just my opinions, and I do not mean to say that these are the only ways you are allowed to feel about these movies.)

The Exemplars:

Dr. No - The first Bond film both defines the series’ typical formula and defies it. While it sets up so much, it’s also lower-key than your typical outing, and more detective-y.

From Russia With Love - This is possibly my favorite. It’s very exciting, it has the Orient Express, Robert Shaw, the Gypsy fight, Robert Shaw, the helicopter bomber, and Robert Shaw. 

Goldfinger - I mean, come on.

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service - Despite the Sam Worthington-like George Lazenby’s charisma-free performance, this is one of my favorites. There’s Diana Rigg(!!!), the bobsled chase, the gondola-wire-stunt-thing, and James Bond falling in love. It makes me cry sometimes.

Live and Let Die - Yes, the villain blows up like a balloon. Yes, there is the embarrassing Blaxploitation stuff. Yes, there is Sheriff Pepper. But, there is also Jane Seymour and Yaphet Kotto, the boat chase, the gators, Tee-Hee and Baron Samedi, and that bitchin’ theme song, with score by George Martin.

The Spy Who Loved Me - Jaws, Egypt, Cold War fun, and the villain’s underwater lair. That is all.

GoldenEye - I haven’t seen it in a while, but I really like it. Plus, it inspired GoldenEye 64.

Casino Royale - I’ll admit it. I boycotted Daniel Craig. Once I rented it, though, I felt so bad about that. The best Bond movie since the ’60s, with a fantastic Bond Girl, credit sequence, villain, theme song, and everything else. And Daniel Craig is a great Bond, if a bit too serious.

Pretty Damn Good:

Thunderball - The ponderous diving scenes keep this one from Exemplar status.

For Your Eyes Only - Maybe it’s only its proximity to Moonraker and Octopussy, but I really like this one. It’s like Roger Moore in a Daniel Craig Bond.

Tomorrow Never Dies - Pierce Brosnan is a great James Bond, and Michelle Yeoh is a great Bond girl. Add some fun stunts and some Jonathan Pryce scenery-chewing, and baby, you got a stew goin’!

Okay, I guess.:

You Only Live Twice - This one just feels kind of off to me. Sean’s clearly checking out, and the plot never really comes together, but it’s a Connery.

Diamonds Are Forever - Semi-painful, but some lines just make me laugh too much to dismiss this one completely. “One of us smells like a tart’s handkerchief.”

A View To A Kill - Christopher Walken, Patrick Macnee, Duran Duran, and Grace Jones manage to snatch this one from the discard pile. Just barely. Don’t mention Tanya Roberts. Please don’t mention Tanya Roberts.

The Living Daylights - I really don’t remember anything about this one except an ugly car, and sledding down a hill in a cello case.

No:

The Man With The Golden Gun - How do you screw up Christopher Lee as a Bond villain? With Herve Villechaize, one of the three stupidest Bond Girls ever, more Sheriff Pepper and a slide whistle.

Moonraker - Don’t bring Jaws back. Don’t send James Bond to space. Don’t give him a blaster from Star Wars. Don’t do space sex.

Octopussy - As I said on Twitter, alternately boring and forgettable, and clownishly ridiculous.

License to Kill - Late ’80s Lethal Weapon-style action by way of James Bond. As it turns out, that doesn’t work.

The World Is Not Enough - Denise. Richards.

Die Another Day - Despite the stunning Halle Berry, the stunning locations, and the stunning cars, Pierce Brosnan goes out in a sadly absurd fashion. And there’s Madonna. Plus, M would never leave Bond to dangle like that. (Can I just mention how much I love Judi Dench? A lot.)

Quantum of Solace - The plot? I don’t know what happened. The action? I don’t know what happened. The villain’s plan, motives, connections? I don’t know. The direction is awful. I walked out of that theater angry. Plus, I didn’t like the credit sequence or the intertitles. See how fancy they made me get with the formatting? That’s how disappointed I was. (But Judi Dench did swear, so there was that.)

Now, MGM, please sort yourself out so I can wash the taste of Quantum of Solace out of my mouth. I miss Moneypenny and Q.

We do not talk about Never Say Never Again. Never say “Never Say Never Again” again.

My mother was attacked by a kangaroo. She was sixteen, on a high school field trip to the zoo. Some boys were teasing a kangaroo, and she shooed them away. She walked to the chain-link fence that held the ‘roo, and started to soothe him. He reached through the fence, grabbed her, and started shaking her, dashing her against the fence over and over.

I love that story.

We lived on a tight-knit cul-de-sac. We all knew each other. Every Fourth of July, every family would bring a huge sack of fireworks to the middle of the cul-de-sac, and we would set them off for several hours. We kids all got hyped on popsicles, while the dads suddenly all became 15-year-old pyromaniacs, and the mothers all went bald from stress. On this particular Fourth of July, the only little girl of the group invited a friend from down the street. I regarded her as an outsider and avoided eye contact appropriately. The ‘works had been going strong for a couple of hours, and we were all reaching the frenzied, feverish peak, right before the inevitable group sugar crash that always ended in tears. We were preparing an imposing cylinder which would shoot baseball-sized fireballs into the sky. My father was grabbing another box of (my) popsicles from freezer for the girls, and they were waiting in the garage, near the gas can. The firework fell over, mid-explosion, and began to spin in the middle of the cul-de-sac, sending fireballs skittering toward every home. I was immediately flat on my belly in the grass, hands interlaced over my neck, like any coward worth his salt should. The firework finally stopped spinning, and was now merely throwing flaming balls of death into our garage. Dad rushed out of the house, shoving the girls toward safety, bellowing “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE GARAGE!” as a fireball hit the side of his truck. As I would later learn, my mother had just taken a shower, and while she was getting ready, chose this moment to take a look outside. I cannot imagine a more horrifying scene for her to find transpiring. Everyone and everything was fine, aside from a few scorch marks on the driveway, and the chigger bites I got from hurling myself to the ground. But that new girl never dropped by again. For some reason, this was not the last Fourth of July spectacular in our cul-de-sac. The next year, fireworks were again brought out, and again set off. I was already stressed out about the whole thing from last year’s events, so I wasn’t having the best time. Then, a firework must have misfired or something, causing sparks to rain down upon the bench in our front yard. On which I was sitting. I had had enough fireworks for the night, and headed inside, where I proceeded to have a delightful panic attack. I eventually fell asleep in my bed, cozily nestled in the corner of the room, right up against the walls. I was awoken by my mother, who informed me that the rather comforting warmth I was feeling was my own vomit. I had sleep-vomited all over the sheets, and down the wall. When I am awoken from the deepest cycle of sleep, I might as well be a belligerent drunk. So I was not cooperative as she tried to haul me out of bed. I was very confused, and angry that she was interrupting my sleep for no reason at all. Eventually, she got me into a clean change of clothes and somehow convinced me to brush my teeth while she changed the bed linens and pulled the bed out to clean the walls and the carpet. I fell asleep in a chair aimed at the bed, so I drifted guiltlessly back to sleep while watching her toil. That must have felt great for her. I awoke the next morning in the chair, in different clothes than I was wearing when I fell asleep. I had no idea of what had happened the night before until she reminded me, and showed me the ruined mattress. And that’s how I got a new bed for the Fourth of July. I always try to ruin furniture around federal holidays, for the clearance sales.

You know, the kids at my school weren’t that bad. They had every opportunity to call me “Derek Fartz,” and believe me, I earned it, but they never did.

At least, not to my face.

Top Chefway: “Designers? Your challenge is to take a sheep’s stomach and turn it into a stylish purse. Please use the Bluefly offal wall thoughtfully.”

Vomit played a big role in my childhood. Some kids were scared of the monster in their closet; some were afraid of the dark; some were afraid of dogs. I was scared of vomiting. As you could imagine, this led to some stressful nights for me, since childhood is the second pukiest time in your life, right behind college. The following series of events would transpire seemingly every month. I’d awake with a start, go to my parents’ room and nudge my mother, moaning “I don’t feel good.” She’d ask in what way I felt bad, even though she knew perfectly well what was coming. Back into my room we would go, where I would sit in my room, working myself into a frenzy of anxiety, as my mom tried to keep a bucket in front of me, like some sort of carnival game. At this point, the infomercials would be turned on, and I would try to let Ron Popeil’s dulcet tones soothe me back into wellness. Eventually, the big moment would come, and I would freak out, as Mom desperately shoved me toward the bathroom, where, for reasons unknown, I refused to go. I would probably puke a little in the carpeted hallway, then have a weeping meltdown in front of the toilet, where I was scared of kneeling, apparently believing that it was the toilet itself which caused vomiting.* I would try to talk my mom into letting me puke in the bathtub(!) but she was unmovable on this point. Finally, I would let it all out, somewhere, probably not in the toilet, the barf screaming out of my mouth and nose, which really burns the sinuses, and maybe soiling myself a little in the process. Mom would strip me, and give me a cold washcloth and a bath towel, and send me, semi-resentfully, back to my room. She would begin a long night of scrubbing, as I would occasionally drop by, still crying, saying “I’m sorry” over and over again, as she cleaned. I would ask for a Sprite, and drift off peacefully as I learned about Ronco’s fantastic new Electric Food Dehydrator. Mom still had a while to go before she slept.

*I don’t recall this, but Mom relishes telling the story of trying to force my aim down at the bowl, and I rebelled, puking up the wall, almost to the ceiling, my head arcing upward, like a wolf howling.