Cinema
Goldeneye (12, selected cinemas)
Shaken and stirred
Mark Steyn
What makes a real Bond film? I'd say: a) A John Barry title song, with lyrics either by Leslie (Goldfinger) Bricusse or Don (Diamonds Are Forever) Black; b) Sung by Shirley Bassey; c) An Aston Martin; and d) The right Bond. Goldeneye fails on a) and b). The title song is by Bono and The Edge, which are the curiously under-endowed appellations of two members of U2 (they should have given 'em a cameo: 'My name is Edge. The Edge'). But, despite all the bum rhymes, they're trying very hard to sound like Barry and Black. And Tina Turner, the bandy- legged melisma queen, makes a pretty decent stab at a Shirley Bassey imperson- ation. Even during the titles, you appreci- ate the Bond team's dilemma: they desperately want to recapture the magic of the past, yet they also want to be on the cutting edge. Cutting Edge and Bono out of the picture would have been a good start, a proud return to first principles, but, in the compromise of the opening sequence, you can sense Cubby Broccolli and Martin Campbell's indecision: asked how it likes its vodka martini, this film says, `Er, well, sort of a bit shaken, but a bit stirred as well.'
There is an Aston Martin, a silver DB5 which Bond races round the hairpin bends of the Grand Corniche. But it still has its 1960s A-reg black and white licence plates: it's his weekend, bird-pulling runabout. For proper work, he now requires a BMW. And you realise sadly that, if Bond isn't What he was, it's because Britain isn't what it was. As with the monarchy, maybe we lust can't afford Bond any longer. But, in fact, Pierce Brosnan has found a rather neat take on the character. Timothy Dalton killed Bond because he felt guilt about playing him and compensated by making him riddled with a lot of boring self-doubt. Brosnan's approach is much more logical: he plays him as a Sixties swinger still swinging on, oblivious to the Nineties. If you can imagine Hugh Hefner turning up at a lesbian creche support group meeting in Islington, you'll get the general approach. He still has his cracks about 'rising to the occasion', but now his boss, his enemies and the new Moneypenny just sign wearily and observe how lame his quips are — as, indeed, intentionally or otherwise, they are. Brosnan has an annoy- ing little tic of self-consciously adjusting his shirt and tie, as if they don't quite fit him and he's nervous Roger Moore's eyebrow will suddenly pop up from inside his collar. He shouldn't worry: this is the best take on Bond since Connery.
If the film-makers had been as savvy as Brosnan, they'd have given us the real Bond and original Moneypenny and new Shirley Bassey theme song, and pitted Six- ties style against the horrors of the Nineties. Instead, we have a shallow Nineties gloss overlaid on a tired basic- Bond plot, complete with nympho domina- trix (see Grace Jones passim) and an evil mastermind with his command centre for global domination located under a lake (as in You Only Live Twice). Alas, in John Barry's is Eric Serra, whose score is terri- ble, draining all the life and energy out of the big set-pieces so that the movie's pace rarely rises about sluggish. I kept waiting for someone to pop up and say, 'Not so slow, Mister Bond.'
On a 'Don't try this at home, children' note: for complex logistical reasons, I caught Goldeneye at a shopping mall in Massachusetts. Skidding into the parking lot with seconds to spare, I got hopelessly lost and wound up on the pedestrian walk- way. But, as it seemed to be the most direct path to the Multiplex, I stepped on the gas, entirely failing to notice a rather steep flight of descending steps just ahead. By the time my car had bounced its way to the bottom, the local solvent abusers were standing round applauding. 'The name's Bond, right?' said one, as I got out. 'Hey, cool.' Actually, I was feeling more like Q, acutely conscious that the car had looked better with more paint on it and vaguely wondering whether any of the bits of metal scattered behind me were important.
I don't think it's coincidence that the Bond series almost expired during the Thatcher years. As much as Red Robbo, Bond symbolised a featherbedded state industry that had it too easy too long: all those martinis and pranged sports cars and tuxedo cleaning bills — and for what? For Goldeneye, he's lucky they didn't give him a Group 4 security van.
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