Perfect 10: James Bond of the British Secret Service

Do you know what today is? 14 October 2024 is 19 – N-n-n-nineteen! – years to the day since the last actor to play James Bond was announced to, it must be said, a rather ambivalent reception on the banks of the River Thames. 

His name was Craig, Daniel Craig. And three years since 2021’s No Time To Die James Bond still hasn’t returned, nor is there any sign that he will be soon. Other than a second 3D outing in Cannes, I haven’t watched NTTD, the 25th 007 caper, since I took in a screening at Nice’s Pathé Gare du Sud cinema the week after I moved to the French Riviera. The date? Tuesday 5 October 2021, though it wasn’t until I arrived I realised it was the 59th anniversary of Dr No hitting the screens in the UK. 

Now the hype has long died, as an expat Brit I feel conflicted watching a pseudo vanity project for an entitled celebrity who, though an actor of some repute, gave the impression he thought he was bigger than the character and franchise. What seemed like a friendly in-house criticism of the genre by Skyfall, it looked like the longer Craig remained in the role, and the more injuries he fell victim to, the more he loathed the job and was determined to have the character killed off. Now the producers, EON, have some creative challenges ahead and the next actor will be forever answering questions about how is it possible to have a character who died come back to life.

Topping it all off, the ending of the film and death of the character served no real purpose other than to prove he was Human After All.

Who knows if Aaron Taylor-Johnson has bagged the role or not. To my mind he is physically perfect for the role, and as a Buckinghamshire boy there’s a nice ring about the Wycombe wonder donning the mantle, if only he can do something about that slightly chavvy estuary accent that needs to lower itself, in pitch not class, obviously.

As someone who is friendly with Barbara Broccoli’s hair and make-up artist, the only exclusive I am permitted to reveal is that BB is in absolutely zero hurry to resuscitate the world’s longest running movie franchise, and that she’s not going to be rushed into a decision for the sake of a few bucks that she clearly doesn’t need, by an industry she, er, is slightly disenchanted by. In other words, she’s digging her heels in as the algorithm-obsessed Amazon try to turn Bond into mere ’content.‘ Good for her.

And as their former scriptwriter John Logan (Skyfall, Spectre) says, succinctly, EON Productions is a bespoke family business, and Broccoli and Michael G Wilson’s aversion to corporate and commercial pressures are the reason we have yet to see ”a mammoth Bond Cinematic Universe, with endless anaemic variations of 007 sprouting up on TV or streaming or in spinoff movies.“

On that note, to help plug the gap we’ve the latest in the blog’s Perfect 10 series, expertly written by the Back To Bond podcast’s Mark Gibson. Take it away MG…

Who doesn’t love a good Bond? Yet in my official capacity as reviewer of the James Bond films — that’ll be the Back To Bond podcast (plug, plug) with my riotous niece Kate Nassor — when venturing on the good ship Bond, I’ve found that the first four are, well, on the whole, not up to modern day standards of filmmaking. Terence Young’s direction sadly lets a lot of it down even though we have him to thank for the general aesthetic ideas and 007 tropes. But the action, especially in the borefest which is Thunderball, make for very dull viewing through these 21st century eyes. But hang on there’s a Mount Everest in the third instalment. 

Goldfinger (1964)

After the hit and miss of Dr No (an underwhelming No No No, as Noël Coward correctly predicted) and the solid but slightly soiled From Russia With Love, we have Guy Hamilton’s ride a plenty, in the epic Goldfinger. I challenge anyone to hear the title song and not become a Shirley Bassey flagwaver. This movie is a definite Yes, Yes, Yes. The whole story is a rambunctious romp, from its absurdly surreal first glimpse of Sean Connery with a bird on his head to the sucker punch ending.

Ably helmed by Guy Hamilton (a long time friend of Sean Connery who was brought on board to replace fellow director Terence Young), the pre credits short packs more action and exhilaration in 10 minutes than the preceding pair packed in four hours. Sean looks assured and in the classic tradition of the thirds always coming out tops (cf The Spy Who Loved Me, The World Is Not Enough, Skyfall), a veritable 007 by numbers triumvirate where the actors playing the secret agent man really relax into the role. 

It’s the one in layman’s terms that has the woman in gold, Shirley Eaton, also famous in America for being in Carry on Nurse — reputedly Connery’s favourite movie franchise ever, which says a lot; the ejector seat, of which a dummy gets fired out in fairness, a man that looks like a wasted Guy Fawkes doll from days of old. It also boasts the bullion bank job at Fort Knox, along with the risqué sexual charms of Pussy Galore, who is strident and forthright. But Bond still bonks her by the end of it, in a scene in a barn, which is riddled with missteps and could quite easily have been chopped out. We have the dynamic duo of villains in Goldfinger, (Gert Fröbe, voice dubbed) and Oddjob (Harold Sakata, mute except for his electrifying wail). Guy gives it a pace that just builds and builds, it’s not boring, it’s streamlined. 

Even now, I’m still weary of getting onto aeroplanes in case I get sucked out, (ohh-er missus), as is the fate of Auric Goldfinger, and he’s a darn sight tubbier than me. But if you want a thrills-a-plenty then here’s where the Bond formula works 100 per cent. 

You Only Live Twice (1967)

The rather long, wet and boring Thunderball (1965) was notable for its underwater sequences dragging interminably, and was again directed by Terrence Young. Two years later, and the Lewis Gilbert helmed You Only Live Twice was a completely different kettle of piranha fish.

Packed with excellent set pieces including a huge fantastical volcano set (made for real, no CGI on this baby), Bond is torn into a battle of East and West in a fluid bit of nonsense screenplayed by Roald Dahl. It’s so brilliantly larger than life that ten years later EON Productions would sort of remake it again slightly changed in another bonkbuster The Spy who loved Me. 

At the time of filming Connery was having money concerns and falling rapidly out of favour with producers Cubby Broccoli and Harry Saltzman. People moan that he was starting to look listless, but aside from that gubbins, he’s great in this. And if he was fatigued my eyes don’t detect it. 

The gadgets, the girls, and the pithy humour were all ramped up here: we get the space race, we get a car scooped up by a giant magnet, a preternatural bit where Sean’s made up to be Japanese, and we see SPECTRE’s head honcho Ernst Stavro Blofeld finally unmasked in the shape of Donald Pleasence, who uses his voice and damaged eyes to chilling effect. 

A veteran of stage and screen, Pleasence’s daughter Nikola may have been neighbours with Buckinghamshire boy Steve Pafford (Aye, she was — and Donald died in Saint-Paul-de-Vence near me in Nice too — Ed.) but I’d like to volunteer as a new Bond girl for the next movie. Fanny Blofeld is a distant relation of mine, long dead, but what a name. Although we do get the cute-as-a-kimono Kissy Suzuki in the picture. Yes, well, you can draw your own jokes for that one. 

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969)

“It’s a flop.” … General opinion.

“It’s dreadful.” … Numerous critics.

“He can’t be Bond — his shirt’s not been ironed properly.” … My Mam. 

What goes up must come down, sang La Bassey, though not in this unique entry into the Bondathon. On Her Majesty’s Secret Service discarded the increasingly outlandish gadgets and plots of the last few films for a tale that was perhaps the most faithful adaptation of one of Ian Fleming’s original novels. 

This back to basics story is also notable for a whole heap of firsts, in fact. For start, it features a new Bond via the cheeky chappie charms of George Lazenby, an Australian model who’d left behind a job as a car salesman across the road from where George Michael was born in Thatcherite Finchley to become known on the small screen as the Fry’s chocolate guy in a series of sweet tooth commercials. In other words, no actual acting experience in the verbal vernacular. 

I’ve got to say, the Aussie does a much better job of the emotional rollercoaster which is OHMSS than brute force Connery ever could. In truth it’s a wintry epic, and Peter Hunt’s first and only Bond directorship, though he edited the previous ones. Propelled by a stunning score from John Barry, it’s got action, it’s got pathos, it’s got a tremendous plot… and it’s got glamour in the delectable Diana Rigg as the only Bond girl who gets to marry 007, however briefly. 

Once a mere footnote in the franchise, now reappraised as a high watermark, it ain’t Christopher Nolan’s favourite Bond movie for nowt. 

Live And Let Die (1973)

Say what you like about Roger Moore, but the man had class. His brilliant out of the ballpark debut that is Live And Let Die rescued the Bonds after shaky start to the seventies with the rather tired Diamonds Are Forever, featuring a return to the role for a slightly chubby Sean Connery.

Yes, it does veer into quip central, but Moore is more than a Spitting Image eyebrow raiser, because ole Rog played 007 gently and lightly, giving the ’70s the ’70s Bond, safari suits and all. 

Moore had read bits of the Fleming novels that suggested “he killed a man, but he didn’t want too.” Thank god he’d never read the original book this was based on, because it’s nowhere near as exciting as Guy Hamilton’s reimagining.

Hitching a Shafty ride on the Blaxploitation wagon which was in full wrecks and effects (cf Super Fly, Cleopatra Jones, Across 110th Street, ironically starring Yaphet Kotto who plays the villain here). It’s strap-in voodoo action all the way, taking in alligators, afros, the first interracial kiss in a Bond movie, the first expletive (“shit”), and a Southern sheriff of the law in JW Pepper, an immensely irritating uncouth non-youth whose voice I imitated on and off for years. Indeed, at four years old LALD was my gateway to the Bonds, and I have been obsessed ever since. Thanks Dad. 

The Spy Who Loved Me (1977)

In terms of bums on seats, 1974’s The Man With The Golden Gun hadn’t hit the mark, so a three-year layoff intervened while numerous writers including Anthony Burgess and John Landis got on the Tiffany case to knock out a Bond movie to rival all others. In the end Cubby Broccoli settled on Christopher Wood, who wrote the smut ’n slut Confessions movies, along with additional input from veteran 007 scribes Richard Maibaum and Tom Mankiewicz.

In TSWLM we get a formidable female rival in Barbara Bach’s KGB operative Anya Amasova, and, not long before leering at David Bowie in the bath in Just A Gigolo, the solidly dependable Curt Jürgens was cast as the megalomaniac Stromberg and played it splendidly. 

All the usuals were along for the underwater ride, including M (a less avuncular Bernard Lee in his penultimate Bond caper), Moneypenny, and the loveable Q. As ’70s kids we remember the iconic Union Jack scene which unfurled as Bond leapt off the Austrian Alps on skies, I even cheered. 

Despite EON’s rejection of Steven Spielberg in the director’s chair, his newly cinematic shark tale was clearly an inspiration for the imposing henchman character of Jaws played by Richard Kiel, sporting shiny metal teeth long before Goldie, and, such is Bond’s wont, there were other nods to cultural signposts of the day like The Man From Atlantis.

Via the Pyramids and the sink or swim Lotus Esprit, The Spy Who Loved Me made spectacular box office and so it should. It’s funny, daring, and in Moore’s hands one of the most watchable Bond movies ever. 

Octopussy (1983)

A veteran of the second unit division, John Glen directed the previous For Your Eyes Only, from 1981 (and one of my personal faves too, boo hoo — half Greek Ed.) and returned to helm this and in fact all the eighties Bonds up to and including 1989’s Licence To Kill. 

Now we get the fantasy of Octopussy released the same year as sourpuss Connery’s tepid comeback in the unofficial non-EON produced Never Say Never Again which was less SPECTRE and more SHIT, despite it sumptuous French Riviera setting.

Reunited with his trusty Walter PPK, Roger Moore shoots that pitiful pirate movie out of the water. It’s an odd but enjoyable romp with Steven Berkoff as a scenery-chewing Soviet general, purloined Fabergé eggs, and an auction scene with veteran French actor Louis Jourdan and Maud Adams (in the title role), which pays homage to North By Northwest. And all the more circular since Cubby Broccoli had wanted Cary Grant to play 007 in the ’60s.

With a menagerie of tigers, snakes and Vijay Amritraj, the action takes place mainly in India. It’s a last hurrah for Roger even though I quite like 1985’s A View To A Kill, as he was looking jaded and distinctly wider of waist. In the thrilling pre-title sequence a horse’s backside rears up but this is no dead donkey, this is top draw action. Fill her up please.

The Living Daylights (1987)

Moore’s gone, and now we have Craig before Craig, in the shape of Timothy Dalton, who was basically a poker faced bank manager doing Richard III. Dalton’s decidedly darker portrayal of Bond isn’t for everyone. In fact, it wasn’t for me for a while but despite his Shakespearean overtones he is a lethal weapon in this, and agilely acquits himself in the fight scenes, of which the one with the bottle-chucking milkman is most odd.

The script seems as if it was tailored for Roger Moore, and Dalton says the quips like a man desperate for a good stool softener. And he only gets one shag to boot.  

It’s tough and taut and has shades of The Third Man and in terms of tone and atmosphere is much more akin to the Bond of the ’60s or Fleming’s novels. Solid if slightly unexciting then. Alas, coupled with interminable legal issues Tim’s sophomore entry, the Miami Vice-like Licence To Kill, effectively sank the good ship Bondathon for the next six years though if you look at his two turns divorced of the broader context, you certainly see where the series would shift two decades later.

GoldenEye (1995)

If you throw Connery and and Moore into a blender out pops Pierce Brosnan, a charismatic screen presence who’d been in line to take over from Roger back in 1986. With an ailing Cubby relinquishing control, his daughter Barbara Broccoli and her step brother Michael G Wilson were now fully in the producers’ seats, and the result was bigger box office, huge car chases, and the whole smouldering Irishness of Brosnan, arguably the most conventionally handsome man to don the 007 tuxedo.

GoldenEye saved Bond. It was cool and it had a seasoned post-Cold War plot. There was a new M in the shape of Judi Dench, and the villains are good but not great. One could argue that the thigh busting Xenia Onatopp (Famke Janssen) stole the show reserved for her bossman Alec Trevelyan (Sean Bean) though it’s interesting how his backstory as a former MI6 agent turned bad is an early exploration of Raoul Silva’s role in Skyfall. 

Casino Royale (2006)

No reflection on the actor but the Brosnan era started with cool stride and became progressively cornier with gaping plot holes and a preponderance of silly CGI and flippant quips: “Who said Christmas comes once a year” indeed. 

Die Another Day (2002) “boasted” a dreadful song and a cardboard cameo, both by Madonna. Faring slightly better was John Cleese as the new Q. Still, a rethink was required. 

And bang, zoom, lets go. Directed by GoldenEye’s Martin Campbell, surly blond Bond Daniel Craig takes over, gets his tackle hit while sitting sublimely naked on a wicker chair. Producing Salem-like witch cries, just as Lazenby had done in ’69, this was a new Bond for the age and in terms of tenure if not schlong size the longest Bond too. He’s brooding. 

Do we want our heroes to be fragile and human, and have issues, pay the Netflix bill on time. It’s all got a bit meta. 

Going back to first principles with Fleming’s first 007 story, Casino Royale is a phenomenal film. It drags the behemoth beast into the 2000s and conveys a much more human and slightly self-loathing Bond. The quips have gone, the “dollies” are absent (to coin a phase by Guy Hamilton) and so are Q and Moneypenny but for now it’s tampered with the formula to coruscating commercial and critical success and ultimately ends up tying in the whole rebooted series into one long 15-year story arc, not that it needed to, mind. 

Skyfall (2012)

A four year lay off did the franchise good after 2008’s so-so Quantum of Solace. Daniel Craig’s quintet of Bonds have seen a couple highs in the series and, spectacularly, I don’t want to say lows, but in the words of the Beach Boys’ odious ironically-named Mike Love “they’ve fucked with the formula.”  

Skyfall is essentially a Bond flick about Bond flicks. It’s brilliantly action packed, and while the quips are still strangulated it’s fantastically directed by Sam Mendes. Here’s a bad boss with a good backstory: former “British” spy (Javier Bardem as the creepy, sleazy Raoul Silva) is caught by the enemy, tortured, turns on “Mother” M, comes back with a deranged plan for vengeance that involves blowing up the MI6 building and the London Underground. There is even a moment, unique in Bond lore, when he flirts with our pistol-packing hero and elicits a friendly response (presumably a matter of good training).

Sam Mendes but directs Skyfall with such a playful cynicism for its predecessors, it’s hard to imagine that the movie isn’t also a full-blooded defence of the Bond franchise. He reintroduces beloved characters like Q (Ben Whishaw), and then gives them the freedom to wink at past iterations of themselves. (After passing 007 a distinctly unimpressive bundle of tech, Q deadpans, “Were you expecting an exploding pen? We don’t exactly go for that anymore.“)

Along with a fiery denouement in Scottish Highlands with the irascible Albert Finney (in a role once earmarked for Sean Connery) Skyfall has a surprisingly emotional ending, and such is the perfectly paced plot everything just works all round. And it won two oscars. 

Roll on the next reboot then. Keeping the British end up, always.

Mark Gibson