Spectre

Spectre, 2015

Directed by Sam Mendes, 148 minutes

Daniel Craig, Christoph Waltz, Léa Seydoux

Review by Katherine Scheetz

             

              The screen is alight with all the elements that make it Bond. Endless well-tailored suits, massive explosions, cutting edge technology, Astin Martins, spy-equipped car chases, boat chases, plane chases, vodka martinis, torture scenes, evil pets, champagne, mirrored, naked women in the opening credits, weirdly flattering turtlenecks, visits to exotic countries, mid-air hand-to-hand combat, seduction, arrogance, glamour and glissandos as the sun sets, golden against yet another seamless Bond getaway. It’s only a tad chaotic.

             

Where else to start in a Bond epic, but with the opening credits? Sam Smith’s “Writings on the Wall” is full of swells, slides and drama that make it the stuff of archival Bond material. The women laying hands on 007 are on fire, sensually wrapped in octopus tentacles, utterly cheesy and a perfect 70s Bond credit replica. A visual treat for any honest fan.

              We enter our plot at a tumultuous time in the “00” program as technological advancement is pushing to eliminate the human element: operatives. The new M (Ralph Fiennes), plays middleman between his agents and the seemingly inevitable change-of-times, reminding us that “a license to kill is also a license not to kill.” Then there’s Bond, still dealing, in his own way, with the loss of our dearest M (Judi Dench, Skyfall) by carrying out her final orders; killing the heart of an international terrorist organization. Using an octopus ring and “the pale king” he sniffs his way off the grid, pulling into the line of duty our beloved Q (Ben Whishaw, Cloud Atlas) and Moneypenny (Naomi Harris, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest), who are given long-overdue time to shine. The outcome is triumphant.

             

A-dork-able Q is fresh right down to his turned-out, academia shoes. His ability to stand next to Bond, looking very boy-genius like, and keep pace with him is impressive. Whishaw put a backbone into the young Q and then some, as we see his quick wits under pressure later in the film. Moneypenny sustains as Bond’s not surprising, but truly heartfelt constant through the trepidations that have plagued Daniel Craig’s Bond career. She calls him James when he is simply 007 to everyone else (and…insert 1967 The Prisoner quote here). Harris is lovely as James’ savvy home-front partner, providing just enough “will-they-wont-they” energy to keep the audience hoping.

              Technically, the camera was on point. Aerial shots flew by time and time again, tunnels and corridors and tree-lined drives that snatch the audiences breathe as much as Craig’s steely blue eyes. The lighting team nuanced every beam to manipulate our mood in seconds, especially helpful through several jarringly dramatic scene changes. The writers kept the smooth sass of Bond intact with quippy one-liners given to every cast member at one point or another, allowing the audience a moment to smirk and breathe in between the string of heart-attack inducing circumstances that make up Bond’s narrative. Craig especially delivers with a slippery tongue and a practiced poker face.

               

It is definitely nostalgic to know that this is the end of Daniel Craig’s reign in MI6 but allows us to reflect on his performance as a full body of work. His contribution to the role has been well researched, without a doubt. Watching him in Spectre, it is apparent that Craig knows the role of 007 well enough to write his memoir. Which is some of what his films have been. Unlike the Bonds before him, Craig’s legacy is in the humanizing of an icon. No longer reduced to the womanizing license to kill, Craig has made him part spy and part man.

              Overall the story is as predictable as the classic Bond villain they created for it, down to his pussycat and his make-up department dream of a battle wound, but that’s not what we came here to see. Craig’s final installment as 007 is a dirty martini; classic Bond vodka, shaken of course, but with just a hint of olive-flavored variation.

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