August Archaeology: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)

With the 40th anniversary of Raiders of the Lost Ark this year, the release of the 4K box set (finally!), and the franchise’s omnipresence on Showtime the past few weeks, The Cinema King has come down with a bad case of Indy Fever. Having already reviewed the films some time ago, let’s try something a little different this month. In the tradition of the “Grand Marvel Rewatch,” let’s dig around the Indiana Jones franchise and see what comes up.

This week, from 1989, it’s Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford) is hired to find the Holy Grail and his father (Sean Connery), who has disappeared while in search of the lost artifact. At the urging of hobbyist financier Walter Donovan (Julian Glover), Indy connects with his father’s expedition partner Elsa Schneider (Alison Doody) before discovering that the Nazis too are on his father’s trail. 

1. The ultimate McGuffin. They don’t call it the Holy Grail for nothing. Perhaps more so than the Ark, the Grail is immediately recognizable as an item of unspeakable value, even without the mysticism of eternal life. What’s more, Steven Spielberg and a passel of writers (including George Lucas) reframe the quest for the Grail as a quest for knowledge, not just for power. When Henry Jones, Sr., remarks at the end of the film that he has found “illumination,” he ties together the entire story in one word; amid deception and missed opportunities, the search for the Holy Grail is the search for truth. It can be tasted, but it can never be possessed. 
2. Sean Connery is a gem. Indiana Jones was born after Spielberg was unable to direct a James Bond movie, so it only makes sense that Indy’s father would be played by the best 007 there was. Once Connery comes into the film about halfway through, the movie practically bends around his gravity, and it becomes a centerpiece for his magnetic personality. He’s charming, funny, and so delightfully out of his element in the action scenes. I said two weeks ago that we deserved more movies with Marion Ravenwood; we certainly missed out on more father/son adventures like this one.
3. Friends in every town. We met Marcus Brody (Denholm Elliott) and Sallah (John Rhys-Davies) in Raiders, but they become full-fledged members of the adventure in Last Crusade. What a delight it is to see these two bring their special brands of levity to the film’s heady action sequences! While some have bemoaned the way these characters become comic relief, I think it makes them more likeable, not less. While Sallah counts camels, Brody gets to star in what might be the best joke of the film, in which Indy talks up Brody’s skills before cutting to Brody, hopelessly lost in Iskenderun and far from competent. The implication that Brody and Henry go way back leaves me surprised that we never got a prequel novel or comic book, if only to explain what “Genius of the Restoration” truly means.
4. The nature of choosing wisely. If Brody’s in the best joke of the film, the Grail Knight is surely given the second-best when he remarks, “He chose… poorly.” The climactic trials through which Indy must pass before finding the Grail, leading up to an unexpected encounter with the Grail Knight, are an excellent remedy to the old complaint that Indy doesn’t actually drive the plot of Raiders. Here, Indy has to think on his feet while solving a chamber of ancient puzzles, with one whopper of a payoff. I’d venture to say that J.K. Rowling cribbed a bit for the climax of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, in which her protagonists follow in Indy’s footsteps by braving a gauntlet of magical challenges.
5. But is it the best? As many times as I’ve seen the Indiana Jones movies, I truly cannot say which I prefer – Raiders or Last Crusade. They’re both exceptional, expertly crafted and infectiously fun. Raiders might be closer to the Platonic ideal of an adventure film, but Last Crusade is almost more compelling because the stakes are that much higher. (Plus, see #2 above.) But if you came to these reviews thinking I’d finally take a stand, I’m afraid I must defer. These are two perfect movies, and how do you choose between cookie dough and butter pecan? (Insert your two favorite flavors here.) I suppose the only correct answer is, “Whichever’s closest.” If Raiders is on, it’s Raiders, but if Last Crusade is nearer to hand, that’s the one.

As we ride off into the sunset, sound off in the comments, and tell me your favorite part of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. We’ll be back next week to close out the month with Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

 

The James Bond Countdown

Welcome back to the ostensible finale of the two-year Double-Oh-Seventh celebration of the James Bond franchise.

What a time for it, too, with Thursday’s announcement that “Bond 24” will be entitled Spectre (release date October 23, 2015 – so expect our review on October 26).  The title has such delightfully ominous associations in the world of 007.  The official plot synopsis:

A cryptic message from Bond’s past sends him on a trail to uncover a sinister organisation. While M battles political forces to keep the secret service alive, Bond peels back the layers of deceit to reveal the terrible truth behind SPECTRE.

With Lea Seydoux and Monica Bellucci as the Bond girls, Ralph Fiennes and Ben Whishaw returning as M and Q, and Christoph Waltz and Andrew Scott rumored to be playing the villains, perhaps the most exciting news is that Sam Mendes is back after a franchise high-point with Skyfall.  It seems like he’ll be picking up on plot points from the Craig era – secret organizations, political pressure against MI6, further exploration of Bond’s heretofore unseen past.  All good news, especially for someone who loved Skyfall the way I did.

But just how much did I love Skyfall?  At the end of two years’ worth of reviews, what do I make of the entire James Bond film series?   You’ve come to the right place; after the jump, you can read my James Bond Countdown, ranking all twenty-four 007 movies.

Never Say Never Again (1983)

We’ve been doing this review series for fourteen months now, and I always tease the next installment by saying that “James Bond will return,” but it’s been a bit of a downward spiral these past few months as we hit the doldrums of the Roger Moore era (or should we say reign of error?).  Finally, with 1983’s Never Say Never Again, we can officially say:  James Bond is back, baby.  And with Sean Connery back at the helm, it’s almost enough to overlook the film’s faults.

Essentially a remake of Thunderball, Never Say Never Again finds Connery as an aging 007 pulled out of therapeutic retirement to counter SPECTRE’s latest plot for world domination.  While investigating Domino Petachi (Kim Basinger), the sister of a dead Air Force pilot, Bond realizes that two missing warheads are in the possession of Domino’s domineering lover Maximillian Largo (Klaus Maria Brandauer).

It seems odd to remake an entry in the canon less than twenty years after Thunderball, but the success of Never Say Never Again is largely due to the work of two men – Sean Connery and director Irvin Kershner (who, of course, helmed The Empire Strikes Back).  Kershner keeps the film moving, avoiding the dull bits with a good action sequence or attractive cinematography, and Connery slips back into the role with all the charisma we’d expect from a veteran thespian.  The decision to foreground Connery’s return as a crucial plot element is an inspired one, and it’s woven quite seamlessly into the tapestry of Thunderball for a film that seems familiar yet cleverly updated. 

The graying Bond plotline fits perfectly with the spa retreat portions of Thunderball, also giving Connery a solid action sequence after a frankly lackluster opening (the jungle infiltration here fails to live up to Thunderball’s jetpack funeral crash).  And Connery’s roguish sense of humor plays well opposite a frustrated M; though the “upper management loathes Bond” plot doesn’t quite mesh with what we’ve seen from previous films, a more welcome change is the newer camaraderie with Q – whose previous frustration with 007 gives way to a warmer embrace when he realizes how much fun it is to have Bond/Connery back.

Indeed, Never Say Never Again is an extremely fun outing for Bond.  It mercifully avoids the slapstick comedy of, say, Octopussy (released the same year), but Connery plays the role with a wry wink and a powerful penchant for opportune one-liners.  Brandauer too, as a contemporary Peter Lorre type, plays his madman baddie with gleeful insanity (which he proudly admits when one character labels him as such).  The big surprise here is Basinger’s Bond girl; while I’m not the world’s biggest fan of hers, she plays second fiddle to Connery without succumbing to the empty-headed bimbo stereotype, instead offering a Domino whose anger at her brother’s death is palpable.  More importantly, Bond’s seduction of Domino is entirely plausible, even in spite of the wiry gray tint in Connery’s sideburns (okay, maybe even because of the gray).

It’s not a perfect Bond film – Goldfinger can rest easy in that regard.  Because it’s a one-off in a sideways universe version of James Bond, we never get closure on Blofeld, who remains at large; it’s a shame, since Max von Sydow’s master criminal role is a treat and mixes menace with that classic British smug satisfaction.  Perhaps the biggest crime, aside from a motorcycle in place of an Aston Martin, is that the score is wholly devoid of the classic Bond theme.  For legal reasons, of course, it couldn’t have appeared, but in this regard Thunderball has the advantage; nothing beats a John Barry score.

If someone somewhere layers a Barry soundtrack over this film, though, we might be looking at a solid silver to stand beside Goldfinger.  As it stands, though, Never Say Never Again is a pleasant detour away from the catastrophe of the mainstream franchise, and I’ll never say never ever to more Sean Connery.

Never Say Never Again is rated PG.  Bond beds three different women, one of whom wears a translucent leotard.  The typical amount of fistfights and gunfights transpire, though with a little more blood than in the mainstream series thus far; one person explodes.

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of A View to a Kill (1985) on March 7, 2014!

Diamonds Are Forever (1971)

Having stepped out of the shoes of the world’s greatest superspy for On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Sean Connery makes his (first) return to the role.  It’s a milestone, to be sure, and there’s no doubt that Connery is back by extremely popular demand (and a lofty salary, even by 1971 standards).  As the 007th official James Bond film and Connery’s last outing, it ought to have been a moment to celebrate the franchise and its leading man, but Diamonds Are Forever proves to be something less than immortal, a strong contender for “Worst Bond Yet.”  (Remember, though, Roger Moore coverage starts next month.)

After seemingly disposing of his archnemesis Blofeld (Charles Gray), James Bond (Connery) is dispatched to infiltrate the organization of suspected diamond smuggler Tiffany Case (Jill St. John).  The case takes him to Las Vegas, where the diamond stockpiling scheme turns out to be something much more sinister, with an old foe at the helm.  (Hint:  it’s not spoiling anything to say that Blofeld doesn’t die in the pre-credits sequence.)

There’s so much about Diamonds Are Forever that ought to work – another outing with the best Bond villain since Goldfinger, a final fling with the man who is (for my money) still the best Bond in 50 years, and the glitz-and-glamor of Las Vegas. Yet the film falls flat, a tepid knockoff a decade too late of Ocean’s Eleven (1960), channeling only some of that film’s imagery while lacking in the most basic element that made that ensemble piece a hit:  the fun.  In all fairness, Connery is still a good bit of fun as Bond, smirking his way through the one-liners with that divine accent of his.  But despite his best efforts to power through it, Connery’s age is beginning to show here; while I’ve nothing against a gray-templed Bond, the bedroom scenes with St. John look odd and out of place.

It doesn’t help that St. John is entirely uninspiring as the female lead, offering little by way of character development beyond a bikini body and a collection of wigs.  It’s mostly the script’s fault that Tiffany Case doesn’t get to distinguish herself as the character did in the eponymous Fleming novel, but St. John’s line readings are frequently uninspiring.  And she’s not the only one at fault; Connery aside, no one does much acting in the film.  Even Gray, tasked with following two stellar Blofelds (Donald Pleasance and Telly Savalas), drops the ball, turning in a Blofeld who’s more reclusive gentleman than master criminal; this is especially disappointing since the film barely plays with the fascinating idea of surgically-modified Blofeld doppelgangers (still a neat special effect when multiple Grays take the screen).  Instead we get a non sequitur gag about Blofeld as an unconvincing transvestite.

Blofeld raises an important point in this film.  When last we saw him, Blofeld had murdered James Bond’s wife, but when the film begins with Bond in pursuit, it glosses over Tracy entirely; the search begins with Connery in Japan, suggesting that Diamonds Are Forever is actually a sequel to You Only Live Twice while glossing over OHMSS entirely.  The last in the so-called “Blofeld trilogy,” Diamonds Are Forever contains none of the urgency it ought to – while the initial scene is played with sufficient contempt and obsession, Bond later seems nonplussed that the murderer of his wife remains at large, less “You monster!” and more “Oh, you.”  Even Bond’s final revenge on Blofeld doesn’t play as vengeance at all, especially given the artificial and implied nature of Blofeld’s fate.

With Shirley Bassey crooning the title track and Guy Hamilton retaking the director’s chair, so much of the film seems designed to channel Goldfinger, right down to the chase across America.  To Hamilton’s credit, the action sequences are quite good.  Again, the beginning sequence with 007 pursuing Blofeld is among the best in the Bond canon, and the car chases (including the implausible but fun two-wheelie) work well enough, trading on the stellar John Barry score and some clever direction on Hamilton’s part.  Ultimately, though, Diamonds Are Forever is a film that both shows its age and appears terribly dated.  With a hint of tired resignation in Connery’s otherwise implacable persona, it’s a shame that he goes out on this note since we know – we’ve seen – he can do so much better.

Diamonds Are Forever is rated PG.  In addition to the scantily-clad opening credits ladies, Bond courts no fewer than three women, seen in lingerie; two more female bodyguards appear in skimpy workout clothes.  A few fights display blood, but most of the violence has a cartoonish edge.

Roll on, Roger Moore!  James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of Live and Let Die (1973) on August 7, 2013!

You Only Live Twice (1967)

You Only Live Twice, Sean Connery’s fifth outing as James Bond, falls under the category of “I love you, but you’re strange.”  Embracing the franchise’s potential for high-octane camp, You Only Live Twice is extremely implausible but entirely entertaining.

After faking his own death (yes, another pre-credits teaser with a presumed-dead 007), Bond hops over to Japan to investigate the mysterious disappearance of an American spaceship.  With the clock ticking amid brewing tensions between the Americans and the Soviets, Bond joins Tiger Tanaka’s secret ninja police in order to infiltrate the secret volcano base where SPECTRE chief Ernst Stavro Blofeld (Donald Pleasance) is hatching a plot for – you guessed it – world domination.

Let’s get the obligatory stuff out of the way – Connery is still the ultimate Bond here, having more fun than he’s ever had in the shoes of the world’s top superspy.  His bemused detachment from the oddity of the plot helps his own credulity as the star, and the droll rapidity with which he fires off those one-liners is captivating.  His opposite number, finally revealed on-screen after five years of teases, is the quintessential iconic Bond villain; Donald Pleasance is a perfect fit for Blofeld, the shadowy supercriminal who’s revealed to be diminutive, weak-voiced, and scarred over his right eye.  In fact, watching You Only Live Twice really gives you a sense of this film’s significance, if only because you recognize all the pieces that have been imitated and parodied:  the volcano base, the hulking blond henchman, and the bald supervillain with a Mao suit, a scar, and a pet cat (see also, Dr. Evil, Dr. Claw).

This movie also has some really great action sequences, including Bond’s some-assembly-required helicopter and the ninja raid on the volcano base.  Even in a smaller piece, when Bond wrestles with a security guard, there’s a callback to Oddjob in Goldfinger that gives the devout fan a comforting sense of familiarity; smaller still, Bond’s pursuit of a mysterious Japanese woman through the side streets of Tokyo is made exciting by the capable direction of Lewis Gilbert.

Before we get to the elephant in the room – the downright ludic weirdness of this movie – there are a few things that don’t work.  For one, the two female leads (Akiko Wakabayashi as Aki and Mie Hama as Kissy) are virtually indistinguishable in that there’s really very little reason to switch characters halfway through the film; indeed, the complex Aki is much more interesting than Kissy, and it’s a loss for the film when she’s replaced by the vapid Kissy.  Worse, the film flirts with “yellowface” when, in a strange and ultimately unnecessary plot point, Bond is obligated to “become” Japanese, change his appearance, and take a Japanese wife.  The Japanese makeup on Connery is entirely unconvincing, rendering him a sort of sunburned Burt Reynolds.

Accentuating the strangeness of You Only Live Twice, the script is written by Roald Dahl – yes, that Roald Dahl, famed for his dark children’s stories like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  Dahl dispenses with much of Ian Fleming’s original (itself more a revenge story than anything else) and opts for what he called a “formula” approach to Bond.  The idea that the series can be reduced to a series of key points and essential beats ought to be discouraging, but the result is something quite smashing – and unexpected from the pen of the man who brought you Matilda.

In fact, that’s a good way to think of You Only Live Twice – full of things that don’t really make much sense but end up working when they’re put together.  It’s not a great Bond film by any stretch, but it’s a successful one in that it never fails to be engaging.  Whether successfully created or absurdly awkward, either way you won’t want to look away from what’s going on.  While some might say this turn toward the irreverent heralds the beginning of the end (remember, the worst excesses of the Roger Moore era are before us), I say enjoy it while it lasts because... well, you know.  “You Only Live Twice, Mr. Bond.”

You Only Live Twice is rated PG.  Bond is involved in some bloodless shootouts with fantastic explosions as well as mild snogging (with bare shoulders and backs visible).  A disconcerting poisoning scene ends with abrupt suffocation, which may trouble some viewers, as may the presence of a tank of man-eating piranhas.

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969) on June 7, 2013!

Thunderball (1965)

Here’s the thing about Thunderball:  it’s not Goldfinger.  I know it’s unfair to compare Sean Connery’s fourth outing as James Bond to his third, widely regarded as his and the series’ best (and, for my money, a perfect movie).  But watching the two virtually back to back means that something about the movie doesn’t quite hit it.

Thunderball is a different kind of movie, for one.  Where Goldfinger was an insular and personal battle of wits between super spy and bullion baron, Thunderball ups the scale when the shadowy organization SPECTRE holds the world for ransom after stealing two atomic bombs.  On a hunch and inspired by a photograph of the beautiful Domino Derval (Claudine Auger), James Bond (Connery) flies to Nassau, where the bombs are being guarded by SPECTRE second-in-command Emilio Largo (Adolfo Celi).

There are elements of Thunderball that work quite well.  The pre-credits sequence is brilliant, beginning at a funeral where Bond pieces together an important clue about one of the mourners before making his escape in the series’ most fantastic gadget yet – a jetpack strapped over 007’s shoulders.  The momentum continues with Tom Jones’s soulful vocals over the title track, a worthy successor to Shirley Bassey’s “Goldfinger.”

And of note here, more than in any other Bond movie, a good deal of the film takes place underwater (Wikipedia tells me it’s roughly a quarter of the movie).  To director Terence Young’s credit, these scenes are actually quite exciting; though mostly silent and filmed without speeding up the natural drag caused by swimming at the bottom of the ocean, the underwater sequences both distinguish Thunderball from the rest of the franchise while also finding a new and creative way to introduce action scenes into the narrative while preserving the scenic specificity of Nassau (something Dr. No, set on an island, did not quite do).  The only complaint about these scenes is that it is sometimes difficult to make out which swimmer is Bond and which is Largo – and which is no one at all.

What’s missing from Thunderball is the sense of mystery that made Goldfinger such a hit.  As in From Russia with Love, we’re let in on the villain’s scheme almost from the beginning; here we finally get our best look at SPECTRE and how it operates (something the rest of the Connery-era films will continue to pay off), and we know before MI6 does that Largo has the bombs.  Consequently there isn’t much of a sense of intrigue about the movie, and the question is more how Bond will save the world and not why it needs saving.

After Pussy Galore provided a challenge to the “Bond Girl” stereotype emerging from Honey Rider and Tatiana Romanova, Domino Derval is somewhere in the middle.  She doesn’t do much for the bulk of the film, providing Bond’s incentive to visit Nassau and giving the audience a concrete link between Largo and the bomb plot (Domino’s brother had been flying the bombs for NATO... or did he?).  Consequently, she spends most of the movie wearing bathing suits and resisting Bond’s advances.  She does, however, get some wonderful scenes after Bond decides to trust her with his suspicions about Largo, and her role in the film’s climax is a welcome surprise.

All told, with Thunderball the franchise is back to Dr. No levels; it’s not an instant classic in the way that the perfect Goldfinger was, but it does some impressive things within its two hours that make it enjoyable enough for Bond aficionados.

Thunderball is rated PG.  This film, like the other early Bond films, is quite tame by today’s standards; Bond interrupts a woman in a bathtub, who shows bare back and shoulders.  Since the film takes place mostly on an island, many men and women are seen in swimsuits which are somewhat revealing.  There is blood in several scenes involving sharks and gunfire, several more scenes of exaggerated action violence, and one impalement (played almost for laughs)

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of You Only Live Twice (1967) on May 7, 2013!

Goldfinger (1964)

1964’s Goldfinger, the third outing in the James Bond franchise, is almost unanimously regarded as the greatest of the series, the (unavoidable pun alert) gold standard against which all other entries have been measured.  If you’re looking for an alternate take on the film, I suggest you look elsewhere, because this film is so good that I watched it two nights in a row – only because I didn’t have time for two immediately consecutive viewings.  (And I might watch it a third time before I get to Thunderball!)

What is it that works so well about Goldfinger?  Most notably, the film is incredibly tight, with no scene wasted; everything either builds up to or pays off on another element, and the film is so well crafted that even scenes that don’t appear to matter are engaging.  Opening sequence aside – in which Bond marvelously busts up a heroin ring, woos a second-rate femme fatale, and stops a would-be assassin, while still finding time to sneak in a droll one-liner – the film offers a series of disconnected encounters between James Bond (Sean Connery, better than ever) and Auric Goldfinger (a perfectly brutish Gert Fröbe) before we realize that Goldfinger is involved in an international plot to attack Fort Knox.

Connery and Fröbe play beautifully off each other, particularly in the famous “laser” scene where their repartee shines brightest (“Do you expect me to talk?”  “No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!”).  In fact, the dubbing of Fröbe by Michael Collins augments the performance by giving Goldfinger a gregarious, larger-than-already-large presence that smartly mixes showy dialogue with stoic body language.  It is in some respects a shame that Goldfinger never reappeared in the franchise, since he makes a perfect adversary for Bond – disdainful of the super spy (yet competitive with the punch lines), relentlessly avaricious, and controlling the mute giant Oddjob (Harold Sakata).

Goldfinger improves upon my critique of From Russia with Love, which is that Bond didn’t do very much.  Here, though, Bond returns to his sleuthing roots and tracks Goldfinger to find out just what his game is.  Consequently, we’re put more fully in his shoes, piecing the clues together in between rousing action sequences, ably directed by Guy Hamilton (arguably his finest hour).  Additionally, the film even improves upon the Ian Fleming novel by tweaking Goldfinger’s end game to make it more plausible; this change is subtle but self-conscious, revealed in a clever scene where Bond muses that Goldfinger’s robbery would take twelve years just to move the gold.

And let us not underestimate the value of a good soundtrack.  Shirley Bassey’s bombastic opening number has deservedly entered the hall of fame for title tracks, its melody unforgettable and its words so catchy you’ll be singing them throughout the film.  From then on, though John Barry delivers an amazing score that plays off the two motifs – Bond’s and Goldfinger’s – with brass and percussion so spot-on that it is difficult to imagine the movie registering the same success without Barry at the conductor’s podium.

Simply put, there is nothing about this film that does not work.  From Honor Blackman as the quintessential Bond girl Pussy Galore to the unforgettable Aston Martin Bond drives in the Alps, Goldfinger is filled with memorable moments (which have been frequently been repeated, by admirers and satirists alike) and an infectious enthusiasm that leaves one smiling throughout.

This, friends, is how you do a Bond movie.  Ten out of ten – highest marks all around.

Goldfinger is rated PG.  This film is quite tame by today’s standards; Bond romances a girl in a bikini, as well as several others who show less skin.  Several deaths occur, though all are bloodless, and most occur off-screen.  There is little if any objectionable language present, though we do have “Pussy Galore” named several times with all the innuendo you’d expect.

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of Thunderball (1965) on April 7, 2013!

From Russia with Love (1963)

From Russia with Love begins with a daring move – in the franchise’s first pre-credits sequence (establishing a trend of these “mini-movies”), James Bond is assassinated.  After a quick turnabout, it’s revealed that “Bond” was only an impersonator in a mask, part of an elaborate training exercise to prepare one man to kill another.  As hooks go, you don’t get much better, so it’s a fitting opener to one of the franchise’s best.

This pre-credits sequence establishes some of the film’s confidence because even though there’s only been one other movie, it’s already plausible that James Bond is dangerous enough to necessitate an entire organization dedicated to his assassination.  Fleming’s book is among the best, as well, because it both makes this plot believable as well as feasible; there are moments in the book when it seems the plot might actually succeed (never mind the fact that Fleming wanted to be done with Bond after writing From Russia with Love, like Doyle with “The Final Problem”).  The film, though, doesn’t go that route; Sean Connery is still super-cool as the world’s greatest special agent, and we never suspect the danger is more than he can handle.

Instead, the film demonstrates how well-prepared Bond is for this latest threat:  armed with a multifunctional satchel (courtesy of Desmond Llewellyn, debuting as Q) that would make Mary Poppins envious, Bond decides to spring what he knows is a trap in search of the bait – a Soviet decoding machine guarded by Tatiana Romanova (Daniela Bianchi).  What Bond doesn’t know is that the trap is part of SPECTRE’s elaborate plot for revenge, and that assassin Red Grant (Robert Shaw) and Colonel Rosa Klebb (Lotte Lenya) are following his every move...

Maybe even more than Dr. No, you can really see the filmmakers setting tonal precedents for the rest of the franchise:  the silent killer, the sexless crony (Lenya is perfect in this role), the unseen puppetmaster stroking a cat.  For a film that focuses a great deal on its villains – Bond doesn’t appear for 20 minutes, doppelganger notwithstanding – From Russia with Love has a great cast doing exceptional work, establishing archetypes that would be parodied for decades to come.

What is less convincing, unfortunately, is the set of protagonists.  Obviously, I’ve praised Connery’s work as 007, which is as convincing and entertaining at ever.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t do terribly much for the first half of the film, left to stand around as a spectator as the other characters fill in exposition for him and wait for things to happen.  The second half, though, is classic Bond, with chase scenes and explosions and gunfights galore, resulting in a tense and claustrophobic classic confrontation aboard the Orient Express.  (A more even treatment of Bond would be found in the series’ next outing.)

As Tatiana Romanova, Bianchi is attractive – one of the only requirements for a Bond girl – though the poor dubbing of her voice, as well as the mild confusion over what her role in the plot truly is, results in a bit of an uneven characterization; it’s never really clear (or, perhaps, it’s just badly performed) whether her love for Bond is genuine or a performance.  More compelling, though, is Pedro Armendáriz’s gregarious turn as Bond’s Turkish liaison Kerim Bey.  Sans Felix Leiter, Kerim Bey is a great ally for Bond, friendly in peace and a potent partner when danger’s afoot.  The sense of mutual admiration and camaraderie between the two redeems any issue with Tatiana, as does the overshadowing effect of the potent villains in the film.

The whole of From Russia with Love is truly greater than the sum of its parts, though, because all the negative points the film scores with Bond’s inaction and Tatiana’s empty presence are outweighed by the generally rousing sense of adventure one gets throughout the film.  There are many classic set pieces here and nods toward the tongue-in-cheek style we’ve come to appreciate in the franchise.  It’s not without reason that the first three Bond films are regarded as the perfect trifecta, and I couldn’t be more excited to see that “James Bond will return” teaser at the end of the credits.

From Russia with Love is rated PG.  There is minimal blood, though a few fight scenes and dead bodies are seen.  Bond is depicted in bed with one woman, whose nude silhouette is glimpsed obliquely, and a riverside picnic features both lovers in period bathing suits; faint-of-heart viewers may be scandalized by two scenes of belly dancers. 

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of Goldfinger (1964), on March 7, 2013!

Dr. No (1962)

Revisiting Dr. No in a post-Skyfall world gives us a better sense of what the latter film is trying to restore to the mythos, and though I’m not convinced modern audiences would go for it, I say bring it on.

Dr. No introduces us to (Bond,) James Bond (Sean Connery), MI6’s best agent, who travels to Jamaica after the murder of a British diplomat and his assistant.  Bond quickly learns that the diplomat was investigating the titular doctor (Joseph Wiseman), who reclusively inhabits the mysterious island Crab Key amid rumors of a scheme to topple American lunar rockets.  But after making his way to Crab Key, Bond meets Honey Ryder (Ursula Andress), a woman who needs saving almost as much as Bond himself does.

I wonder if director Terence Young was cognizant of how many precedents he was setting with the film; the end credits don’t read “James Bond Will Return,” leading me to suspect that franchising wasn’t a top priority – and for good measure.  The film’s self-contained nature works, introducing all of its principals economically (even in spite of a hasty reference to a larger enemy force).  After fifty years and umpteen viewings, the first intonation of “Bond, James Bond” remains instantly iconic and transcendently concise, telling us everything we need to know about the cool customer who’s arguably one of the top five good guys of all fiction.  The omnipresence of Monty Norman’s inimitable theme tune (you’re humming it now, I’m sure) solidifies its connection with this character’s every move.  And Connery, though not quite the Bond of Ian Fleming’s book series, inhabits the role to the hilt, able to handle flirting with Miss Moneypenny while convincingly delivering deadpan death threats to his foes.

As that foe, Wiseman sets the bar for the deranged Bond villain whose physical deformity (here, metallic hands) matches his insatiable insanity, an almost Dickensian move which unites psychological interiority with physical appearance.  His scenes are few, but Wiseman’s stern soft-spokenness sets Dr. No up as a man who is feared beyond his physical abilities.  His treasure room, too, in which he meets Bond, establishes his grand theatricality – another Bond villain hallmark – which Wiseman does well to underplay.  It’s surprising that he’s on screen for less than twenty minutes in a film which bears his name, but he shoulders the role well.

Andress, however, is disappointing, in part because her voice is distractingly overdubbed but more so because she doesn’t do much at all in a film dominated by such compelling leads.  I know that complaining about character development for a Bond girl is a little like chiding a ring for not being a bracelet, but I’ve been spoiled by later entries that do more with the female lead than just strap a bikini on her and set her a-snoggin’.  It doesn’t help that Andress’s dubbing exposes the basic emotionlessness of her performance; she describes an apparent rape with the same monotone ennui as she details her meticulous revenge, never convincing the audience that she’s capable of either.

What’s striking about Dr. No on this latest rewatch is how carefully and methodically everything unfolds.  There are actual clues, suspicions, and improvisations on the part of the Bond character.  He doesn’t enter the film with everything figured out; indeed, he’s a bit of a cipher, playing blank and allowing the drama to unfold around him as he pursues a resolution.  Of course, it helps that M (Bernard Lee) tells Bond most of what he needs to know at the beginning, but this is not a Bond movie that sketches out its players immediately.  Instead, the film includes as much deduction as action sequences, a strength of the film in light of the dated special effects.  I suspect, though, that modern audiences might get bored with a Bond film where Bond is more inscrutable than active.  I for one think it’s a credit to the filmmakers that the world they create is compelling enough to hold my attention when Bond isn’t doing anything.

As the first Bond film, it’s almost too easy to say that Dr. No is an instant classic, a trendsetter, and a first-rate spy film.  But it is.  With the franchise’s darkest hours ahead of me in the coming months, it’s good to revisit the original incarnation of the character and remind myself how they were made back in the good old days.  (They were made, of course, shaken but not stirred.)

Dr. No is rated PG.  There are a few deaths and fight scenes, though blood is only seen thrice.  Bond kisses and canoodles with many women (setting that famous precedent), though nothing in the film ever rises above the level of “tame by today’s standards.”

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of From Russia With Love (1963), on February 7, 2013!

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)

"I've got a lot of fond memories of that dog."

That's about the way I feel about the third Indiana Jones film, which I still consider to be the best of the four-film series. Recovering from the Temple of Doom debacle - a redeemable film, to be sure, but certainly less spectacular than its predecessor and successor - Steven Spielberg and George Lucas culled together this masterpiece, one of the best of Spielberg's and arguably THE best complete film of Lucas's (I exclude the Irvin Kershner-directed The Empire Strikes Back from contention on the basis of its incomplete cliffhanger ending).

I almost feel like plot synopsis is irrelevant here, since this movie is pop culture history only 19 years after its premiere. Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford, in his defining role, perhaps even more so than as Han Solo) is contracted by antiquities collector Walter Donovan (Julian Glover, who is the only actor holding the distinction of playing in the Star Wars, Indiana Jones, James Bond, and Harry Potter series [and a Woody Allen movie, to boot] - talk about cultural monopoly!) to recover the Holy Grail, the cup from which Christ drank at the Last Supper. Perhaps a more immediate motive for Indy is the disappearance of his father (the always marvelous Sean Connery), who was also hot on the Grail trail when he went missing. Of course, the Nazis are after the Grail, as well, so it's literally a race to the finish.

I have the same gripe here that I had about Raiders of the Lost Ark - that I remember it too damn well. This is, again, more my fault than the movie's, but here I've been able to discern a key factor in the movie's memorability factor - a script apparently predominantly written by an uncredited Tom Stoppard, who's been called the modern Shakespeare, and perhaps not without good reason - recall he's the author behind John Madden's 1998 Shakespeare in Love (no, not THAT John Madden). The writing of this film is pitch-perfect, one of the funniest action movies I've seen (take that, Pirates of the Caribbean).

The acting is phenomenal, with every member of the cast deftly moving between slapstick comedy and subdued scenes of dramatic dialogue. The action scenes are spot-on, as well, directed brilliantly by Spielberg with just the right amount of levity to prevent a heart attack. And the return to Nazis and Judeo-Christian artifacts is one well appreciated in light of the more mystical Kali cult and Sankara Stones.

Like I said, I'm having a tough time reviewing a movie that I've seen dozens of times and love to death. I feel obligated to include this movie on my short list of "Perfect Movies" and also feel obligated to share that list at some point. The trouble is I have too many fond memories to look at this movie with any degree of objectivity. But that's not necessarily a bad thing, because seeing this movie again with an older eye proved to be two of the best hours I've had this month.