Four stars. Rating: PG-13, for intense action sequences, sensuality and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.9.12
Daniel Craig’s stint as James
Bond has been about rebirth and re-invention, and Skyfall is no different,
albeit with an intriguing twist: It feels more like John Le Carre than Ian Fleming.
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| Somehow, Daniel Craig's James Bond, left, always seems to wind up tied to a chair, and forced to listen as the villain — in this case, Javier Bardem's Silva — shares his nasty plans. But this is no ordinary villain, and Silva has no intention of destroying the world's economy, or igniting a war with Russia or China. This maniac's mission is much more personal, and it'll cut to the very core of Britain's venerable intelligence agency. |
As also was the case with Casino
Royale, things get personal.
The formula seems the same at the
outset, with an audacious, action-laced pre-credits teaser set in Istanbul,
which finds Bond and a fellow field agent (plucky Naomie Harris, as Eve) in hot
pursuit of a baddie who has ambushed some MI6 colleagues and stolen a vitally
important computer hard drive. First on foot, then in cars and motorcycles, and
finally atop a moving train, Bond relentlessly pursues this fellow, ultimately
with the assistance of a backhoe (!), all to an exhilarating orchestral score
from composer Thomas Newman.
Then, at the climactic moment ...
things take an unexpected turn.
And not just in terms of plot, as
the scripting trio — returning scribes Neal Purvis and Robert Wade (their fifth
007 epic), allied with Oscar-nominated playwright John Logan (The Aviator, Hugo) — moves the narrative into increasingly un-Bondian waters. Director Sam
Mendes gradually shifts the tone as well, utilizing the obligatory exotic
locals as a means of moving the action from London to Scotland — the long way
around — for a stripped-down third act very much akin to his masterful 2002
adaptation of The Road to Perdition.
An unusual approach, for our
big-screen imbiber of cocktails shaken, not stirred? Indeed. But there’s a
reason for the madness concocted by Mendes and his writing team: an artistic
flourish that suitably honors this 50th anniversary outing in cinema’s
longest-running continuous franchise. (Dr. No opened in London on Oct. 5,
1962.)
There’s also plenty of madness
elsewhere, in the form of Silva: an adversary who stands among the most
memorable of Bondian megalomaniacs, and is brought to chilling life by Javier
Bardem. And if we see a bit of his horrific Anton Chigurh, from No Country for
Old Men, that’s probably no accident.
Bond villains too frequently have
felt like pretend scoundrels with fancy dress and fancier accents —
particularly during the spoof-laden Roger Moore years — but Bardem’s Silva is
the real deal. His introductory soliloquy on the feral nature of trapped rats
probably is the best scene-stealing debut ever granted any Bond baddie, and
Bardem sells the moment masterfully.
And this fellow isn’t out to rule
the world; he merely wants revenge.
For what, precisely? Ah, therein
lies the tale.
Back in London, M (Judi Dench)
finds her authority challenged by Mallory (Ralph Fiennes), a go-between for
impatient politicians disenchanted with MI6’s cloak-and-dagger approach to spy
craft. It’s too retrograde, superfluous and expensive in the terrorist-laden
21st century, they argue, and it’s also time for M to retire: an opinion that
Mallory apparently shares.
Such internecine squabbles
intensify — along with the question of M’s competence — when a cyber-attack
triggers a massive explosion at the very heart of MI6, with considerable loss
of life. Worse yet, the stolen computer hard drive has fallen into the hands of
the same hacker, who, in WikiLeaks fashion, intends to expose its information
and reveal the identities of British agents operating under deep cover within
terrorist cells around the world.
All these breaches point directly
to M, as do snippy little messages that pop up on her computer screen, warning
that it’s time to “repent her sins.”
One slim clue points to Shanghai,
where Bond dutifully picks up the trail, accompanied by Eve and armed with a
few gadgets from M’s quartermaster (Ben Whishaw, understated, mildly smug and
simply delightful). These new toys seem oddly insufficient, if clever: a tiny
radio transmitter and a pistol with a grip that will respond solely to Bond’s
palm print, thus preventing its use by anybody else.
A brief skirmish later, we’re off
to the Dragon Casino in Macau: a setting that truly lets production designer
Dennis Gassner excel. The casino itself is done up in opulent reds and yellows,
and boasts an actual dragon pit (!) and dragon lady; that would be Bérénice
Marlohe, as Sévérine. But the water-based approach is breathtaking, as Bond
glides to the entrance in a small boat that passes countless large floating
luminaria. Simply gorgeous.
So yes, to the degree that James
Bond films are about impertinent stunts, exotic locales and stunning women, Skyfall thus far has lived up to expectation. Longtime fans also will appreciate the
return of occasional witticisms, particularly when Bond meets the almost
laughably youthful Q in London’s National Portrait Gallery. (Yes, kids, Daniel
Craig’s Bond does have a sense of humor!)
Take note, though: These are —
refreshingly! — the mildly sarcastic, well-timed quips of the Connery era,
rather than the strained, groaning puns that Moore dropped like little lead
balloons.
The film’s tone shifts at this
point, however, as Bardem’s Silva takes the stage. The subsequent battle of
wits grows dark and dangerous, and we’re reminded of the horrific punishment
that Bond took at the hands of Le Chiffre, back in Casino Royale.
Before Mel Gibson became little
more than a media joke, he was known for persuasively playing roles that
demanded tortured agony, whether physical (Lethal Weapon) or mental
(Ransom). The man cornered the market for on-screen suffering; with his
departure, Craig’s Bond has picked up that mantle.
Gone is the immortal 1980s and
’90s superspy who glided breezily through so many big-screen adventures, rarely
mussing even his hair; Craig’s Bond bleeds, endures poundings and doesn’t
necessarily recover wholly intact. This is as it should be: The Bond from
Fleming’s typewriter is damaged goods from the first novel forward, and we thus
admire the grit and determination that power him through subsequent adventures
despite these failings.
More than anything else, though,
Craig’s Bond is loyal to the core: both to England, and most particularly to M.
The biggest joy of this script is the degree to which it expands upon this
relationship, which Craig and Dench display with plenty of prickly, feisty
on-screen chemistry. An earlier Bond entry — Pierce Brosnan’s The World Is Not
Enough — attempted to delve into this intriguing dynamic, with little success;
this film delivers the goods.
In fairness, Craig and Dench have
the advantage of a quieter setting: the iconic, wind-swept landscape of
Glencoe, Scotland, which Fleming selected for Bond’s family background in his
penultimate novel, You Only Life Twice. (Bond’s Scottish heritage was the
author’s gift to Connery, whom Fleming had grown to admire as the on-screen
incarnation of his hero.)
I’m grateful, as well, for a
title song — performed and co-written by Adele, and quoted throughout the film
in Newman’s score — that sounds like a Bond anthem: an actual hummable melody,
with invigorating, standard orchestration ... unlike the cacophonous trash of,
say, Madonna’s title theme for Die Another Day.
The various character interactions
— M and Bond, Bond and Silva, M and Mallory, Bond and Q — are this script’s
strength, and they help camouflage some, shall we say, rather glaring plot
contrivances. Let’s start with the notion that the identities of every British
undercover agent would be entrusted to a laptop out in the field; with a
decision like that, M deserves to be put out to pasture.
But other issues also crop up.
Bond catches up with his pre-credits adversary in Shanghai, as this fellow
prepares to assassinate an art lover in an adjacent building. Why? Who is the
target, and what is his relevance to these proceedings? And I simply could not
swallow the notion that Sévérine, no matter how desperate, would lead Bond to
her employer, knowing full well that she’d be putting herself in mortal danger.
But you’re likely to forgive such
sins, thanks to an epilogue-of-sorts that completes the necessary task of
re-introducing the “classic” Bond to us, along with the, ah, accessories that
charmed the world so much in the 1960s.
Craig’s proto-agent endured the
whole of Casino Royale before he earned the right to introduce himself as
“Bond ... James Bond” in the final scene, to that film’s first use of the iconic
“James Bond Theme.” This time out, all the elements finally at hand, he’s
allowed to “star” in the equally iconic gun barrel motif, but only at the end
of this film ... which concludes with an acknowledgment of this golden
anniversary and a revived on-screen promise that also was part of the ritual,
back in the day: “James Bond will be back.”
With a quality production like
this, we can safely believe it.
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