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.
