THE SATURDAY BOY

Okay, this is turning into a problem. Seriously. The next person that recommends Casino Royale to me gets a slap upside the fuckin’ head. Tell you something, if I’d actually spent hard-earned money seeing this in the cinema, I’d be compelled to burn a lot of houses down.

A lot. And I don’t want that on my conscience because of a stupid movie.

Before I begin, I feel it only necessary to remind you of one simple rule that somehow reviewers and audience for this particular film (and the fuckin’ BAFTA committee, for crying out loud) seem to have forgotten.

Ready?

Just because something isn’t as shit as its predecessors, doesn’t mean it isn’t shit.

I know that can be a touch confusing, so go back and read it again. Back with me? Good. Let’s take it point by point.

“They tried to do something different with Bond.”

Yes, they did. For about ten minutes, before it got too edgy for them. We have a rough and ready opening in black and white, nicely illustrating the old maxim that it’s a lot harder to kill a man than you think. As soon as our secret-selling double agent flies over the back of his swivel chair, that’s the end of the good stuff. Because the only significant thing they did different to Bond was they made him a bit more of a twat, and a bit more handy. Sure, he’s all about flinging the bad guys into walls, and there’s some nice touches in the (many) (long) action sequences. But a bit of blood on his shirt doesn’t make him John McClane.

“But he actually gets hurt.”

And I actually heard that from someone. From the trailers and clips, it looked like he did, too. The scene in question is notable for its inclusion only. Picture it: Bond’s just gone and caused a fracas in a stairwell where he’s just killed the bloke who sold the ice cream in Ghost Dog and his bodyguard. He’s sustained a few knocks in the aforementioned fracas. In fact, you could say Meester Bond is looking a little worn down. So he goes back to his hotel room, strips off in front of a mirror, has a good long leer at himself, drinks some apple juice, and whoopsie-doodle, he’s back at the card table. Looking fine. Not a mark on him. In fact, to everyone present, the only thing noticeable is a new shirt. It’s even remarked upon by Le Chiffre. Who then poisons him. And then Bond gets out of that. Then he’s fine again. Because, apparently, while he actually gets hurt, he has Wolverine-type healing abilities. Or maybe it’s magic fuckin’ apple juice, I dunno.

Compare and contrast this with the closing half hour of The Bourne Supremacy. You know the bit. Where Jason Bourne looks sick as a dog because he hasn’t slept for fuck knows how long and he’s sporting a good old-fashioned actual honest-to-goodness flesh wound. We know he’s going to make it, just like we know Bond will. But there’s still a wee scrap of doubt…

Yeah, that’s what I wanted. Not necessarily realism – I’m not greedy – but a little verisimilitude would’ve been nice.

“Okay, what about that torture scene? You can’t say he’s not hurt there.”

The ball-whipping? Okay. What about it? You want me to say that it’s probably that moment, or just before that moment that really spells the end of the movie? That it’s possibly the lamest, ill-conceived part of the film, that the banter between torturer and Bond would’ve been sub-par for the worst piece-of-shit straight-to-video 80s actioner?

You know, I never understood all these elaborate tortures. It’s the simplest thing… to cause more pain than a man can possibly endure. And of course, it’s not only the immediate agony, but the knowledge that – if you do not yield soon enough – there will be little left to identify you as a man. The only question remains: will you yield… in time?

Stand up, whoever wrote that. Now get the fuck out of the room. You’re officially off the artistic roll call. The bad guy in Snakes On A Plane had a better torture speech than that dreck. But I’ll come back to the script later on. We’re concentrating on action here. And even if you could stomach what was essentially gentle S&M masquerading as torture, you must’ve had problems with the end of that scene, where the scriptwriters get all classical on us by throwing a deus ex machina into the room.

“Don’t spoil it.”

I feel like I should, so people don’t waste their money. That torture scene (and the supposed double-cross that kicks it all off) signals the end of my suspension of disbelief. Up until that point, I was quite happy to watch, happy to be ignorant of the flaws (and there are many), putting it down to, “Ah, it’s a Bond movie”. But when I’m absolutely convinced that the following twenty minutes (or thereabouts) are a fuckin’ dream sequence because the events are so incredibly implausible, there’s a problem.

“It’s not implausible.“

You don’t think a character’s complete emotional U-turn is implausible? You don’t think the following happy-happy-joy-joy and double-cross is implausible? Or were you one of those people who felt they needed one and a half movies to watch, and who hadn’t followed it properly up to this point anyway, but were looking for another overlong action scene?

“Alright, you don’t have to be a twat about it.”

I didn’t think I was.

Look, there are some good points. Jeffrey Wright is a fantastic actor, and there’s a nice wrinkle in the Le Chiffre character. I like the fact that Daniel Craig is a kinda camp Bond (see: perpetual use of Blue Steel), but if I want to watch a camp Bond, I’ll watch Moore. My main problem with the film comes down to its fanfare of reimagination: if you’re going to reboot a franchise, don’t be half-arsed about about it. Don’t tell me it’s going to be gritty and then rely on standard Bond cliche after you’ve established a slightly more handy Bond. It doesn’t count. Don’t nick an entire subplot from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and expect me not to fuckin’ notice, either.

Oh, and lines like

I have no armour left. You’ve stripped it from me. Whatever is left of me – whatever is left of me – whatever I am – I’m yours.

and

If the only thing left of you was your smile and your little finger, you’d still be more of a man than anyone I’ve ever known.

do not win you any favours. In fact, they work against you. Because while I may have been willing to believe that there was a perfectly serviceable script in there at some point, lines like the ones above (and many more, just so you don’t think I’m being unfair) have convinced me that your script is unmitigated shite. I can only assume that this is down to Paul Haggis, a man whose Walker: Texas Ranger script was probably the artistic highlight of his career. But that’s mostly because I’ve never forgiven him for turning Million Dollar Baby into a Movie-Of-The-Week. The other two may well be culpable, too. Lines like “She knew you were you” don’t just magically appear. If they did, we’d burn ‘em at the stake for being witches.

Look, let me explain myself clearly right at the end. Only my exposition won’t be crowbarred into a phone call with M, like it was in the movie. I wanted to like Casino Royale, I really did. I was all ready for a new era of Bond. I was ready to embrace Daniel Craig as a new anti-hero superspy, a bastard offspring of Connery and Lazenby (who was a thug). I was spoiled by Batman Begins, I suppose, but I expected to be as excited and it didn’t happen. If anything, the last twenty minutes of the film essentially put the kibosh on the entire series for me in precisely the same way Attack Of The Clones did.

So this time, James Bond will not return. Because really, life’s too short for this kind of shit. And if we keep watching ‘em, they’ll keep making ‘em. So that’s it, I’m finished with it. No more Bond.

Next up: The Host. Which, even if it ends up being rubbish, has a giant fuck-off monster in it.