THE DANIEL CRAIG COLLECTION: 4K UHD Blu-ray (Sony,Fox/MGM, Eon, 2006-15) Fox Home Entertainment

Next April, or so it would seem, Daniel Craig’s tenure as Britain’s most dedicated super spy, James Bond – 007, will come to an end.  At this point, frankly – I just do not care; the world of Bond having moved on with or without Craig’s participation, or rather, having been downgraded over the last several decades, from the suave bon vivant of the espionage class to just some thug muscle in a three-piece suit, performing with far less finesse and infinitely more mixed martial arts maneuvers than I suspect even Bond’s creator, author Ian Fleming would have preferred. And too, I have grown ‘groan’ weary of Craig’s cagey attitude towards the role that has singularly put his name on the international scape of filmdom; his chronic threatening, that every Bond film after Quantum of Solace (2008) was going to be his absolute last, only to linger, delay and then, finally, jerk his fan base around like a bunch of marionettes, sheepishly announcing, ‘oh no, I’m doing the next one too.’ Under the old home guard of co-producers Albert ‘Cubby Broccoli and Harry Saltzman, and, their well-oiled machinery Danjaq/EON Productions, Bond films used to come out – one – every other summer. By the time of their release, they were the most highly anticipated movies of the season. And, as far as actioners went – there was nothing to touch the Bond franchise for cutting edge stunt work, exotic locales and a vast assortment of scantily clad beauties from the international jet set. All this changed after Timothy Dalton’s departure; the travesty that was – and remains – 1989’s Licence to Kill. In truth, producers had desperately wanted, and sought out Pierce Brosnan (then, of NBC’s Remington Steele fame) for the coveted role. NBC’s conspiratorial nature to delay Brosnan’s contractual release (he could have shot the Bonds while on hiatus from his hit TV series) – and, just long enough so Broccoli had to go with Dalton or renage on his already prearranged release date for the upcoming The Living Daylights (1987), and then, the network’s even more spiteful decision to cancel Remington Steele at the height of its popularity, forced Brosnan into nearly a decade’s long purgatory of Diet Coke/Bond knock-off commercials, simply to pay the rent. It also forced the Bond franchise into an artificially induced limbo from 1989 to 1995 when, freed from the legalities, Brosnan was finally able to mark his big screen debut as the debonair secret agent. Alas, the Brosnan Bonds after Goldeneye (1995), in retrospect, lack impetus and, even more importantly, that sly intelligent charm Roger Moore infused into the character. Over the course of seven movies, Moore had remade Bond his own image, and every Bond since has had to grapple with audience’s expectations for a witty quip and pithy retort, flung off the cuff with such panache, it positively reeks of some regal stealth and air of superior confidence. Fleming’s Bond was never quite so polished.

So, for those who preferred Connery’s Bond to Moore’s – and, let’s be honest – most everyone does (aside: I enjoy both Moore and Connery for very different reasons…also George Lazenby, without whose hasty departure after 1969’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Moore’s foray and tenure as James Bond would not have been possible), Daniel Craig, ostensibly represented an incarnation of Bond closer to Fleming’s original intentions. Yet, Craig has proven a rather tough sell, at least for me: the ‘blonde Bond’ with an oddy angular physicality (you cannot compare Craig’s musculature to Connery’s edgy panther-like reflexes. Connery looks utterly debonair in a tux, while Craig appeals more as the eye-candy/reverse sexism/copy-catting of Ursula Andreas, rising from the sea in 1962’s Dr. No, in a scene mirrored in 2006’s Casino Royale), with a decidedly less sophisticated approach to his work. Connery’s Bond used physical violence only when cooler methods of dispatch were not at his disposal – a lover first, and then, a fighter. Craig’s Bond breaks out the fists and kick-boxing at the least provocation, viewing the female sex with austere disdain. The Daniel Craig 007 movies therefore represent what director, Martin Campbell described for the foreign press as ‘Bond for real.'  Personally, I prefer to check realism at the door when going to see a Bond movie; the classic Bond adventures, sheer testosterone-charged escapism. Another aside: there has been something of a concerted effort ever since Casino Royale to infer all that had gone before it was a stagy pretext for ‘getting back’ to ‘Bond’s roots’, with criticisms most heavily heaped on Roger Moore as the ‘Bond light’ of the franchise; all but overlooking the fact, Moore’s outings as Bond are among the most successful installments in this classic series.

The 21st James Bond action/adventure, Casino Royale is arguably faithful to the series’ roots and Fleming's book. And yet, perhaps fearing a backlash from going too dark and dangerous all at once (ostensibly, this had been Timothy Dalton’s undoing) Craig’s 007, takes on various shades that hark all the way back to both Sean Connery and Roger Moore’s personas as the character; Craig’s man-handling of Eva Green’s double agent, Vesper Lynd, a riff on Connery’s classic mistreatment of Daniela Bianchi’s Tatiana Romanova in From Russia With Love (1963), while Craig’s deliberate smashing up of a stuffy German tourist’s Mercedes, posing as the valet at a country club, before casually tossing away the keys, smacks of Moore’s tongue-in-cheek. Upon its theatrical release, Casino Royale was hailed as a masterpiece with several critics declaring Craig ‘the best Bond ever’ – idiotic hyperbole, indeed. For starters, chronology is a big problem for Casino Royale. Plot wise, it predates Dr. No (1962), establishing how Bond earned his double 'O' status. Yet, the settings for Casino Royale are contemporary. As such, we are asked to set aside the rest of the Bond franchise before delving into this movie – trading Bernard Lee’s ‘M’ for Judi Dench; eschewing main staples like Miss Moneypenny and ‘Q,’ and tolerating alterations made to the trademark ‘gun barrel’ opener that has introduced every Bond movie since Dr. No.

On this outing James Bond (Craig) has just been awarded his double 'O' status. M (Dench) feels that the appointment is a shay premature, especially after Bond kills Ugandan terrorist, Mollaka (Sebastien Foucan) under the watchful eye of embassy cameras. The assassination creates a minor international scandal. Nevertheless, Bond surfaces in the Bahamas to keep a watchful eye on Alex Dimitrios (Simon Abkarian) and his wife, Solange (Katarina Murino). But he quickly migrates to Miami to stop Alex from bombing a plane. In Miami, Bond also learns Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelson) has gambled the world terrorist organization’s bankroll on a dip in airline stocks, presupposing the stocks to plummet after the bomb went off. As this did not happen, Bond and Le Chiffre are now mortal enemies in a high-stakes poker game, set to take place at Montenegro’s uber-chichi Casino Royale. Enter the beguiling Vesper Lynd (Eva Green), a double agent and Rene Mathias (Giancarlo Giannini), who presents himself as a contact and point man for Bond. At the start of the game, Bond gains the upper hand by deducing Le Chiffre's tell. During a brief respite, Steven Obanno (Isaach de Bankolé), a leader of the Lord's Resistance Army, previously introduced to Le Chiffre by Mr. White (Jesper Christensen), the spurious liaison of an undisclosed criminal organization, becomes quite incensed at the loss of his funds. Obanno ambushes Le Chiffre in his suite with a machete, but permits him to follow through with his plan to win back the money. Bond intercepts Obanno and his bodyguard, killing both men with considerable ease.

Presumably traumatized by the encounter, Vesper is comforted by Bond. Alas, she refuses to fund Bond’s further playing. Frustrated, Bond is about to kill Le Chiffre when he is introduced to fellow player, Felix Leiter (Jeffrey Wright) - a CIA operative who agrees to stake Bond in exchange for being allowed to take Le Chiffre into American custody once the games are over. Bond rapidly rebuilds his position in the poker match until Le Chiffre’s gal/pal, the viperous Valenka (Ivana Miličević) poisons Bond’s martini with digitalis. Retreating to his Aston Martin for an antidote and a defibrillator, Bond loses consciousness but is revived by Vesper. He then returns to the game, accruing a $115 million forcing all but Le Chiffre out of the running for the grand prize. go all in. Predictably, Bond wins with a straight flush. Celebrating their victory, Vesper is kidnapped by Le Chiffre’s men. Bond makes chase in his Aston Martin. Le Chiffre has his men tie Vesper down and leave her in the middle of the road. To avoid running her over, Bond swerves in a hellish crash and is taken captive. This leads into the infamous ‘ball-bashing’ scene, whereupon Bond, stripped naked and tied to a cane chair, is repeatedly abused by Le Chiffre who is prepared to castrate Bond.  Mercifully, Mr. White murders Le Chiffre and his associates for their failure. Miraculously, he leaves Bond and Vesper alive.

Sometime later, Bond awakens in an MI6 hospital. He orders Mathis arrested as the traitor. as Swiss banker, Mendel (Ludger Pistor) arrives and Vesper and Bond provide the account number and password to transfer their winnings. Bond declares his love for Vesper and considers resigning from MI6. The couple depart for an extended holiday in Venice. However, when M telephones Bond, informing him that the money was never deposited, Bond suddenly realizes Vesper has been playing him all along. Bond tails Vesper to a handoff of the money. However, Vesper is now taken hostage by the gunmen. Bond shoots the building's flotation devices, causing its foundation to crumble and sink into Venice’s Grand Canal. Trapped inside the elevator, Vesper apologizes to Bond before drowning. A deeply wounded Bond cradles her lifeless body in his arms while Mr. White, observing it all from a distant safety, casually walks away with the money. M now reveals to Bond that the mysterious organization backing Le Chiffre had kidnapped Vesper’s lover. So, her theft of the money was predicated on love – not some wicked deception for personal profit. Bond tells M he will return to service, after discovering a final text message left by Vesper. We fast track to an estate at Lake Como. Having located Mr. White, Bond incapacitates him with a superficial wound to the leg, standing over him to make his formal introduction, “The name's Bond. James Bond.”

Casino Royale is a superior installment in the Bond franchise for several reasons. The first is Craig's performance that completely bowls and wins us over from the start. Despite a legacy that would intimidate most actors, Craig assumes the mantel with a gutsy pride and his own inimitable brand of avenging justice. For this brief wrinkle in time, Craig was the new Bond for a new generation, his steely-eyed satisfaction pushing the envelope just this side of becoming a vigilante/antihero, while remaining faithful to the Bonds of yore. Alas, Craig was to falter, rather miserably, in his second Bond outing; Marc Forster’s Quantum of Solace (2008) which borrows its title, but precious little else, from a Fleming short story. Bond interrogates Mr. White, but is betrayed by M’s bodyguard, Mitchell (Glenn Foster) who was supposed to pay hit man, Edmund Slate (Neil Jackson) to kill Camille Montes (Olga Kurylenko), the lover of environmentalist, Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric). Bond learns Greene is assisting Bolivian General Medrano (Joaquin Cosio) to overthrow the government. The rest of the plot is basically a race against time, but the story quickly degenerates into a dark and insidious thriller with an uncharacteristic body count. Bond’s old ally, Rene Mathis (Giancarlo Gianninni) agrees to accompany him on his mission to Bolivia where they are met by MI6 operative, Strawberry Fields (Gemma Arterton). Both Fields and Mathis are later murdered. Until Quantum of Solace the resident hallmark of virtually every Bond pic was its suspension of disbelief into pure escapist fantasy. Yet, Quantum of Solace repeatedly betrays this time-honored edict, devolving from an iconic Bond actioner into a David Fincher styled thriller. It doesn’t work: plain and simple. Despite the fact it remains the highest grossing Bond movie of all time, Quantum of Solace left a very bitter taste behind for most fans; one that the much-anticipated release of Skyfall did not entirely rectify.

Sam Mendes’ Skyfall (2012) is not so much a throwback to Connery’s Bond as it quickly gets weighted down by Mendes’ downer of a screenplay. Skyfall is attempting to do too much all at once. We get an even less glamorous and unrefined Bond this time; Craig, looking like eight miles of very bad road in Detroit, spending much of his time chest-thumping against opponents unworthy of his talents. Add to this Javier Barden as an effete MI6 rogue agent with a ‘mommy fixation’, dressed as though he bought his outfits off the ‘blue-light special’ rack at K-mart, and the return of Moneypenny, reincarnated as tough, sexy – and black?!?! – and, Mendes’ dossier on Bond is a bio only a ‘M’ could love – and possibly, not even then. Skyfall is not a Bond adventure but a sort of deconstructing back story about this iconic movie creation we, really do not need to know all that much about. Craig’s habitual need to bring a contemporary action anti-hero’s thirst to the role is wanting for something more intelligent to relay. Since 1989, Bond’s producers have gradually made the conscious effort to embrace a more serious undercurrent, in keeping with Ian Fleming’s original intent. But the cream of the jest with the cinematic Bonds – especially Connery and Moore’s Bond had always been that while Bond seemed capable of just about anything  – and quite often behaved in ways that would have downgraded the reputation of any other movie hero - except Bond - to the status of a common brute in a three-piece suit (like damn near choking Denise Perrier with her own bikini in Diamonds Are Forever, 1971), Bond then nevertheless wore the Teflon-coated mantle of a debonair raconteur, his knowledge of the finer things in life giving 007 at least a veneer of refinement completely absence in Craig’s hulking brute.

For all his earthy naturalism, Daniel Craig has quickly devolved James Bond into just another rock ‘em/sock ‘em self-destructive goliath of no great distinction. Those old enough to remember Bond in his prime – classy, unruffled and immaculate – will be very hard-pressed to find even a glimmer of the bon(d) vivant. Craig’s Bond is rough trade at best; a scrapper, unconvincingly masquerading as a gentleman. Craig hasn’t taken the series back to the halcyon days of Sean Connery; rather, turned Ian Fleming’s super spy into the Jean Claude Van-Damme of MI6 who can beat the hell out of most any opponent with his bare fists and drink most drunks under the table while getting more than slightly snookered himself.  Why the elitist MI6 would choose to keep this guy in Vodka Martinis, much less consider him their number one pick to repeatedly save the world is, frankly, beyond me.  Skyfall’s premise embroils Bond and fellow operative – Eve Moneypenny (Naomie Harris) in pursuit of French assassin, Patrice (Ola Rapace) for the murder of an MI6 agent and the theft of a NOC list, containing the real names of NATO agents in danger of having their international cover blown. Gee, where have I seen this before? Oh right, in DePalma’s Mission Impossible (1996)!  Bond and Eve make chase through the bazaars of Turkey (shades of From Russia With Love) and Bond and Patrice ride motorcycles atop the rooftops a la 2009’s The International starring Clive Owen.  Inexplicably, the passenger train Bond and Patrice now find themselves on also contains a single flatbed with a massive bobcat crane – presumably because the Turks have absolutely no idea what sort of insurance liability this represents. Bond mounts the crane and uses it to dig into the passenger car directly in front where Patrice is hiding. Eve, a horrible shot, is ordered by M (Judy Dench) to take Patrice out with a massive assault rifle from her awkward hillside vantage. But whoops; she misses her mark and hits Bond in the chest instead. He plummets like a stone from a rickety trestle into the raging river beneath, presumably to his death. Bond, dead? Where have I seen this before? Oh right, You Only Live Twice (1967) – one of my least favorite Bond movies of all time.

Back in London, M is under pressure from Gareth Mallory (Ralph Fiennes), chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, who wants to dissolve MI6, presumably because spying is an outdated means of gathering top secret data. I am not entirely sure what he intends to replace it with – world news updates from CNN? Mallory informs M she has two months before her enforced ‘retirement’ and M replies she intends to get to the bottom of the NOC list theft before her departure. It’s all very glib in a pinky’s up, stiff upper lip, tight-ass Brit sort of way. She patronizes him and he treats her condescendingly like a relic from the Cold War. Bond resurfaces (of course, he does) and learns someone has hacked into M’s computer to blow up MI6 headquarters by triggering a gas leak. M assigns Bond a new handler, Q (Ben Whishaw as a prepubescent computer genius whose only gadgets for Bond this time around are a Walter PPK sensitive only to Bond’s touch and a radio transmitter that vaguely resembles a magnet I currently have stuck to my fridge). Bond tails Patrice to Shanghai and briefly hooks up with Sévérine (Bérénice Marlohe); a former child prostitute, reared and repeatedly reamed by Raoul Silva (Javier Bardem); who basically bought her outright when she was only twelve. Yeeeuuuck! Bond promises to kill Silva to protect Sévérine. Instead, Silva kills his paramour and is then apprehended by MI6. It’s all part of Silva’s plan; to be caught, then escape, then be caught again; then, riddle a courtroom where M is giving her deposition in a hailstorm of bullets, but in such a way so as not to even wound M once. Bond takes his boss to his family’s secluded country estate, Skyfall, in the Scottish Highlands. Of course, Silva and his men follow them, leading to a showdown and the unlikely assassination of M, who forgives Bond for failing to protect her. In the final moments, Bond is reunited with Eve atop a building in downtown London – her last name, so we learn, is ‘Moneypenny’. Meanwhile, Gareth becomes the new M.

At this juncture, Daniel Craig began to drop hints he was done with Bond. Personally, I would not have been altogether sad to see him go; done with the gun-toting hypocrite, who affects a taste for fine wine, expensive cars and hot women, but cannot help but wind up shirtless and pathetically soaked through with hard liquor while wallowing over the loss of his beloved mommy-figure, ‘M’ (Judi Dench) and deceptive lover, Vesper Lynd (Eva Green). Craig’s Bond also suffers from a general disdain for the British government – yeah…the same government funding his lavish expense account. I also wish this Mr. Bond would quit banging twenty-cent tarts or philandering married gals of a certain 'prime' with equal aplomb and noblesse oblige. Sean Connery’s Bond would never have been caught with these sloppy seconds; ditto for Roger Moore’s laid-back – if morally ambiguous, though deliciously amused 007. The secret to either man’s longevity as Bond – James Bond, that is – remains steadfastly affixed to each’s ability never to take themselves or the work of super-spying quite so seriously. In the shadow of film makers like Terrance Young, Guy Hamilton and John Glenn, among others, who intuitively understood part – if not all – of Bond’s sex appeal lay in the cream of the jest (he actually ‘cures’ Pussy Galore of her lesbian tendencies in the novel, Goldfinger); also, the series’ perpetually sun-drenched and appealingly exotic locales.  I observe, with more than a modicum of regret, no such thoughts have crossed the mind of director, Sam Mendes who continues to inveigle his Mr. Bond in convoluted and badly realized vignettes mired in the dank, dark despair of post-post-postmodernism run amok. Spectre (2015) is one of the bleakest, weakest and most graceless footnotes in the Bond franchise, morbidly afflicted by our present-day preoccupation with a theater of death.

In fact, after the mercifully reinstated, trademarked gun barrel opener, the pre-credit sequence to Spectre takes place on ‘The Day of the Dead’ celebration in Mexico City; Bond, attempting to kill three would-be terrorists. Bond’s interception is foiled by a hotel explosion. Once again, James has come too late to this party. In the good ole days, MI6 would have debriefed their numero uno answer to Nietzsche’s superman who, thereafter, would have become the catalyst to stop these baddies in their tracks. But no – it’s a new day for Bond, increasingly the bungler of such clean kills that turn into very messy ‘international incidents’ of the blood-soaked grind house variety. The hotel explosion leads directly into a somewhat tedious chase through the congested streets, all shot with the frenetic ‘Steadicam’ energy of a break-dancing chicken by cinematographer, Hoyte Van Hoytema; Bond on a die-hard’s mission to apprehend ringleader, Marco Sciarra (Alessandro Cremona) – the real assassin who survived (of course he did!) this attack. In the ensuing struggle, Bond and Sciarra board a helicopter; Bond eventually tossing Sciarra from it to his death; though, not before he recovers a ring with a stylized octopus etched into its band. Given Bond’s previous outings with this international spy syndicate known as Spectre, the fact he needs MI6 clarification, and a little help from Ms. Moneypenny (Naomi Harris) to identify the emblem, remains something of a curiosity. Perhaps too many knocks on the noggin have finally taken their toll on our Mr. Bond.  

Personally, I do not believe it proper to put a chronically sullen and squinty-eyed Bond on display as the proverbial piñata, enjoyed for a good swift kick (and far more), repeated marked as a dinosaur for extinction, and cruelly blamed for all the wrong and ridiculousness in the world; a sort of anti-heroic worldview, presently adopted by the denizens of dreck in Hollywood and increasingly favored by audiences. To paraphrase Bonnie Tyler, “I’m holding out for a hero!” It is a good thing I am sincerely not holding my breath too, because somewhere along the road to this Bizarro-land degradation, where virtues and traditions are trampled on and disdainfully observed with increasing moral ambiguity, as a society we have replaced the definitions of good vs evil with the laissez faire ‘gray area’, marketing such unadulterated swill as art – high, low or (and, in most cases) woefully indifferent. Viewed from this stagnation, one could almost champion a pervert like Christoph Waltz’s Ernst Stavros Blofeld as doing the morally ‘good’ work by drilling holes in Bond’s cranium with a Black and Decker.  Grotesque torture scenes like this one have become the norm in Bond movies since Craig’s testicles were thrashed with fetishistic aplomb by Mads Mikkelsen’s Le Chiffre in Casino Royale. In Spectre, Waltz’s Blofeld goes after the other head, enjoying Bond’s cringe-worthy suffrage for a few excruciating moments that leave much to be desired since – no kidding – we are assured Bond will always survive whatever hellish circumstances befall him – even a crude pseudo-lobotomy.    

Spectre isn’t out of the realm of possibilities for a post-Connery/Moore Bond flick. But that is not saying much and precisely, it proves my point. It hovers in the foggy ether as a nondescript installment to this once highly anticipated franchise, steadily brought down several pegs with each subsequent installment since Moore’s exit; with Spectre, a fait accompli to the unremarkable era of the ‘every Bond’ movie; dangerously close to the precipice of being just par for the course. Certainly, Craig – who has repeatedly threatened with each new installment to be ‘un-officially’ done with his alter ego, seems to be going through the motions herein. He’s older too; at 47, less buff and more sullen than serious, looking to move into his emeritus years and/or diversify his portfolio with roles apart from the one that continues to make him a star. Personally, I am not one of those Craig worshippers who, having idiotically labeled him “the best Bond ever!” now seem as myopically ‘shaken and stirred’ by the prospect of facing that day when Craig will no longer be Bond. Actually, I am rather looking forward to it, and was hoping Spectre would be his swan song; goodbye, and don’t let the Aston Martin run you down on the way out. For a while now, I have had my own ideas as to who could – and should – be the next 007; the list beginning with Henry Cavill, Clive Owen or Ewan McGregor. Each would bring something new and likely invigorating to a role Craig seems willfully to despise with increasing frequency, holding out for his even more obscene paycheck to reprise the part.  

Spectre is, at 148 minutes, one of the longest and most self-involved Bond movies ever. Superficially, at least, it has everything one might expect from a classic Bond thriller: stylish sets, exotic international locales, outlandish action set pieces, and a turbo-charged erotic femme fatale.  Still in absentia: the uber-clever Bond super villain a la an Auric Goldfinger or Hugo Drax; although, Christoph Waltz’s Blofeld retains the traditionalist evil-doer’s verve for pointlessly labyrinthine ambitions about conquering the whole world, doomed to remain an avatar’s pipe dream in the end. Everything one could imagine on a $300 million budget is present and accounted for, and yet, none of it looks the part…well, maybe, Léa Seydoux forthright Bond girl, Madeleine (no, no misogynistic monikers like Dink, Pussy Galore or Holly Goodhead…this Bond girl is all grown up, though predictably bumped out in all the right places). I keep reading a lot of pseudo-feminist critiques about Bond movies refusing to ‘move with the times’ and accept strong women in lieu of the ‘Bond girl’. My sincere advice to those expecting a Linda Hamilton-Terminator 2-styled butch to suddenly break out the guns instead of the bubbly for Bond; don’t go to see a Bond movie! It’s not your cup of tea – Earl Grey or otherwise! Indeed, Craig had to dodge a militant press corp. repeatedly browbeating him about the so-called ‘problematic views’ of women in Bond movies. Note to anyone harboring the misguided notion any Bond girl, past, present or future, is designed to be anything more than a sultry, slinky sex kitten for our Mr. Bond to bonk – she’s not.

To be fair, Spectre addresses some, if not all of ‘the problem’. Léa Seydoux gets in a few licks, but has the ever-loving snot and wind knocked out of her by steroidal henchman, Hinx (David Bautista). Face it, girls; he is meaner, uglier and ramped up on better synthetics than Madeleine. She never had a chance. But to be clear, Bond movies of yore were created to appeal to a male audience: real men and boys who couldn’t wait to grow up and aspire to be James Bond. Poor deluded devils! Bond was never meant to get in touch with his feminine side. According to a recent Cosmo poll, neither do real women who would prefer a ‘take charge’ protector alpha male to a sensitive ‘yes’ man – especially, in the bedroom. So, perhaps, Bond’s only genuine flaw is he is remains unapologetic about being that surrogate for guys who have already surrendered their testicles to the media castration of the male sex; their urges, needs and inherent behaviors viewed as bad – or at the very least, wrong – while everything their significant other does is celebrated as clever, inspiring and structured around high-minded principles of altruism. Oh, who’s telling tall tales now? And I have news for any aspiring Bond director in the future who believes the next Bond movie should present Bond with a female counterpoint every bit his equal. You will lose half, if not all of your loyal Bond viewership if that day ever comes to pass. After all, it is a James Bond movie we have paid to see: not James Bond…and friends.

One of the most grotesque tragedies befallen a great many Bond movies in more recent times – is a weak villain. Spectre has one of the least inspired of the lot. The oversight becomes even more glaringly curious when one considers how maniacally sinister Christoph Waltz can be, given the right part and more than an arm’s length of experimentation to discover it within himself. Waltz ought to have been the linchpin to propel Spectre into that top-tiered echelon still occupied by the likes of an Auric Goldfinger. But he never gets this opportunity and quickly slips into just another ineffectually bitter and grimacing cliché of villainy. Since Casino Royale, each subsequent Bond movie has tried to provide plausible ‘cause and effect’ to carry over from one movie into the next. Too bad Bond movies were never intended to be trilogies, quadrilogies, prequels, sequels etc. but stand-alone entertainments with a certain level of threadbare continuity factored in for good measure; the gadgets, pithy one-liners, merciless chiding of Bond by his superior, ‘M’, gadget master, ‘Q’ and Miss Moneypenny; the Bond girls, with no head, except what they ‘gave’ to the cause of satisfying our Mr. Bond in bed, and so on.

The plot to Spectre is suspiciously like too many other more recent Bond adventure yarns; James, taking one for the team yet again, officially and indefinitely suspended from field duty by M (Ralph Fiennes). As a parting gesture, ‘M’ has ‘Q’ outfit Bond with a sort of glamorized version of the ankle bracelet – an injectable chip that can be monitored from anywhere in the world. Meanwhile, ‘M’ is in the midst of a power struggle with ‘C’ (Andrew Scott), head of the privately-backed Joint Intelligence Service, consisting of the newly amalgamated MI5 and MI6. We get flashes of the old home guard caught in the cross hairs of their debate; the gleaming white edifice that once housed Judi Dench’s MI6, now a crumbling façade slated for the wrecking ball. It’s the end of an era, or rather, the forced obsolescence of this once galvanic espionage leviathan now viewed by ‘C’ as a foundering Cold War relic to be put down once and for all. ‘C’ promotes his agenda in parliament. Britain will join with eight other countries to form a consortium with the code name, Nine Eyes; a global surveillance and intelligence initiative.

Against direct orders, Bond convinces ‘Q’ to quietly stop monitoring his whereabouts. He travels to Rome, attends Sciarra’s funeral and confronts the widow Lucia (Monica Bellucci) in the presence of some Spectre bodyguards. Their tête-à-tête signs Lucia’s death warrant. That evening, as she prepares for her assassination, Lucia is instead surprised when Bond suddenly reappears, easily dispatching the henchmen sent to kill her before predictably making love to her to seal the deal. Lucia confesses to Bond, Spectre is behind everything; their international consortium closer than ever in their plans to rule the world. Learning the whereabouts of their next clandestine meeting, Bond secretly infiltrates the gathering; unnerved when its leader, Franz Oberhauser – a.k.a. Blofeld (Christoph Waltz) turns in mid-address to the group to acknowledge him directly. Bond is pursued by thug-muscle henchman, Hinx. In a harrowing car chase solely meant to afford Bond the opportunity to show off the new toys affixed to the revamped Aston Martin he has stolen from ‘Q’s laboratory, James narrowly escapes this assassin. Previously contacted by James, Moneypenny now informs him everything about Spectre’s plans points to Mr. White (Jesper Christensen) – a former member of Quantum, since revealed to be a subsidiary of Spectre. Traveling to Austria in search of White, Bond finds the recluse hiding inside the basement bunker of a remote and seemingly abandoned chalet. White is dying of thallium poisoning. But before the inevitable, he strikes a bargain with Bond, pleading with him to protect his only child, Dr. Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux) who is sure to become a target. 

Offering White the honorable out, Bond leaves the room and White shoots himself. James enters the Hoffler Klinik, a mountain-top retreat, under the pretext of becoming a patient. But Madeleine is both hostile and unwilling to accept Bond’s protection. Meanwhile, ‘Q’ has discovered a sinister link between former agents Le Chiffre, Dominic Greene and Raoul Silva. All of them belonged to Spectre. Meeting up with ‘Q’, Bond and Madeleine narrowly escape Hinx; a daring chase by cable car, air and automobile, ending with a near death experience for all concerned. Madeleine agrees to take Bond to L'Américain; her late father’s favorite hotel in Tangier. There, a secret room in White’s suite reveals the whereabouts of Oberhauser’s base of operations in the desert. Traveling by train to this remote outpost, Bond and Madeleine are once more confronted by Hinx. In one of the most brutal of all hand-to-hand combat sequences ever featured in a Bond movie, the brutish Hinx, who once gouged a man’s eyes with his bare fingers, now attempts to toss Bond from the baggage car like a rag doll. Instead, Bond gets Hinx leg caught in a chain link attached at the other end to a series of weighted barrels. Tossing the barrels out the open door takes care of Hinx too.

Now, Bond and Madeleine arrive at a remote outpost in the middle of the desert, surprised to find an escort waiting to take them to Oberhauser’s base of operations, nestled in the middle of a crater. Oberhauser reveals to Bond how Spectre will soon dominate the world, having been instrumental in securing the Nine Eyes program and thus rendering all international protection agencies utterly useless and at the mercy of his control. Bond is severely beaten by Oberhauser’s henchmen and then strapped into a chair; Oberhauser drilling into Bond’s cranium to extract the mutual history they share – seemingly one memory at a time. Oberhauser reveals to Madeleine that when Bond was a boy, prematurely orphaned, his father became Bond’s temporary guardian too. Jealousy intervened as Oberhauser, believing Bond to have taken his place as the number one son, murdered his own father and then staged his own death; later, to resurface as Spectre’s puppet master, Ernst Stavros Blofeld. Oberhauser now suggests he will drill into Bond’s mind, systematically enjoying the slow, sad progression of Bond’s mental and physical infirmity.  Instead, Madeleine interferes and, with the aid of a gadget watch earlier supplied by Q, she is successful at stopping Oberhauser from carrying out this dastardly plan. Bond and Madeleine escape Blofeld’s compound, detonating a series of explosions that level it to the ground. Back in London, Bond and Madeleine part company briefly. Although Bond is in love with her, he accepts she cannot – and will not – be a party to this espionage any longer.

Unhappy chance, Madeleine is captured and taken prisoner yet again by Oberhauser who now presents Bond with an impossible dilemma. Either he uses the remaining countdown to prevent Spectre from gaining access to the Nine Eyes main data base – thereby thwarting Oberhauser’s plans to rule the world – or save Madeleine from certain death, as Oberhauser has hidden her somewhere in the bowels of the defunct MI6 building, destined to be detonated with explosive charges. Bond gives ‘M’ the necessary information to pursue ‘C’ for his complicity in Oberhauser’s plans.  ‘M’ and ‘Q’ ambush ‘C’ at his office moments before Nine Eyes’ directive goes live. ‘Q’ manages to corrupt the program, thereby denying Oberhauser access to the participating nation’s high security files. But ‘C’ and ‘M’ now struggle to regain control of the system; ‘M’ causing ‘C’ to slip and plummet to his death from an open window. Inside the old MI6 building, Bond manages to rescue Madeleine with only seconds to spare. Viewing their escape from a nearby helicopter, Oberhauser orders his assassin/pilot to fire upon the pair. Instead, Bond manages an impossible kill shot, the helicopter crashing into Westminster Bridge. Oberhauser has survived – just barely. He now taunts Bond with this flawed victory; killing him will put an end to their rivalry, but Bond will lose Madeleine’s love forever. Bond is tempted, but ultimately chooses to leave Oberhauser to be arrested by the police. A short while later, Bond and Madeleine are seen departing from his stylish London flat aboard the iconic and presumably completely rebuilt Aston Martin DB-5 – inexplicably blown to bits at the end of Skyfall. But this finale suggests Bond has chosen a quiet life and marriage over more assignments for MI6. Has he? Hmmmm.

Spectre is occasionally a stylish affair, but mostly it leaves a great deal to be desired. The plot is overly complicated and nonsensical. Okay, it’s only a movie, as Hitchcock used to say. But the villain of this careworn ‘world domination’ scenario is not even clever enough to explain how Spectre’s technological espionage – advanced surveillance via robots and drones – will render whole governments ineffectual and at his mercy. In retrospect, the alliances begun in Casino Royale were the beginning of a quadrilogy capped off by the events as unfolded in Spectre; the lengthy thematic integration of various narrative bloodlines spread out over four movies, heavily influenced by personal motivations with a singular, if overreaching, arch of intrigue, and a not altogether successful parallel between hero and villain who share a mutually flawed past. In Quantum of Solace, Bond became a rogue agent, further muddying the clarity between good vs. evil. But in Spectre, this line in the sand is more obscured – or rather, clouded by chronically shifting alliances. Could the whole thing really have been designed merely to exorcise a child’s grudge match turned into a magniloquent revenge scenario: as in ‘you stole the love of my father so I’m going to kill you’; Blofeld the mysterious architect of Bond’s pain?!? Apparently, and rather simplistically - yes, although it has taken a good deal more time than necessary to unravel this reality.

It still might have worked, except Waltz’s deadpan monologues increasingly take on the flavor of wounded pontificating; soliloquies, actually, devoted to his own self-importance; a sort of ‘anything you can do, I can do better’ one-upmanship that will not rest and suggests, however ridiculously, that Blofeld and Bond might have been compatible siblings, if only one was not quite so noble and the other, ruthlessly psychotic. Of course, allowing Blofeld to walk away from the fray at the end has set up the not altogether out of the realm of possibility he will return in the ‘as yet to be released’ No Time to Die. The stunts in Spectre are the most impressive aspect of its production; the aerial helicopter assault during the pre-title sequence, the flaming plane crash and Hummer chase through the snow-capped mountains of Austria, the elephantine holocaust in flames that levels Blofeld’s desert hideaway; these are executed with a frenetic energy, all but ruined by cinematographer, Hoyte Van Hoytema. Rarely, does Hoytema allow his camera to remain stationary or even focused on anything in particular for more than a second or two, the blur in his continuity having a thoroughly discombobulating effect. Action sequences in movies are meant to impress and hold the viewer spellbound in the dark with their all-encompassing feats of full-scale daring. The stunt work in Spectre is so shakily achieved, it merely forces one to look away to settle a queasy stomach. Badly done!  Like most Bond movies that have followed Roger Moore’s record-holding tenure, this one is watchable, though unlikely ever to be beloved. It has no staying power and zero credibility as a great work of art, much less a worthy contender in the pantheon of great 007 adventures. Worse, like too many Bond movies from more recent times, it neither sets a new standard, raises the bar, nor helps evoke the time-honored precepts of the franchise as a whole.

Fox/MGM Home Entertainment has unfurled The Daniel Craig Collection in 4K UHD; interestingly named for two reasons. First, this collection is celebrating Craig – not Bond – and second, it presupposes collectors will want to shell out now for a ‘collection’ that, as yet, is incomplete, as No Time to Die will surely have to be considered as an appendage, worthy of inclusion a year or so from now when another ‘collection’ gets reissued. Apart from an abysmal marketing ploy, to collect on the interest and profits to be derived from whetting consumer appetite for the ‘new’ Bond flick, I really do not see the point of this 4K release. Predictably, the UHD elements culled for this gathering of Craig’s Bonds is stellar with no complaints to be had – save one. Honestly, this set is ultra-thin on extras. We basically get nothing on the UHD discs, and the regurgitated standard Blu-ray releases included herein with the extras that existed when they were originally made available some years ago. The 4K image on all four Craig Bonds – Casino Royale, Quantum of Solace, Skyfall, and Spectre rather predictably lead the way in terms of audio/video quality standards, although it ought to be noted that only the last two movies have been rendered in native 4K, while the first two are derived from 2K up-samplings. Nevertheless, all four titles deliver marked improvements we have come to expect from 4K mastering efforts. Casino Royale’s UHD transfer is, by far the most brightly contrasted of these; owing to Phil Meheux’s lush cinematography. Here, colors pop with renewed subtlety and fine details abound.

Arguably, the rest of the Bonds in this set offer even more impressive upgrades, as their infinitely darker representations of the world of 007 now achieve even greater depth of field, even under the lowest lighting conditions. Spectre’s grain structure is more pronounced – even, heavy at times, but still looking quite indigenous to its source. The DTS 5.1 audio here sounds about the same as its standard Blu-ray counterparts, with subtle improvements in the directionalized delivery of SFX. While only the 4K editions of Casino Royale and Skyfall contain audio commentary options, the Blu-ray editions of each movie house, in addition to these commentaries, the original – if still scant – extra content as before; so, press and promo junkets, billed as featurettes, music videos and theatrical trailers.  Bottom line: I just do not get the same viewing longevity out of the Craig Bonds that I still do from the Connery/Moore/Lazenby flicks of yore. Owning Craig’s contributions in 4K has not improved the overall tenor of their entertainment value either. These discs are flawlessly mastered, however, and will surely please from a technical standpoint. But am I really watching James Bond movies just to see how razor-sharp the image quality can get?!?! Judge and buy accordingly.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

3 overall

VIDEO/AUDIO

5+

EXTRAS

1