Spectre [Review by Haus]

Spectre was maligned. Trust not the naysayers—this is a Bond film, and a better one than the vast majority of the canon. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a Skyfall-drunk Johnny-come-lately, a high-nosed pretender, a baboon. Spectre has a couple failings, but a bad film it simply is not.

First things first: Skyfall was a better movie, a deeper and more personal one, but as I said at the time, they can’t all be like Skyfall. They can’t all plumb the grumbling belly-pipes of James Bond’s childhood, rake the muck of his personal relationships, or “reboot” stuff left and right. They just can’t. At some point, Bond has to return to the comparatively ho-hum task of simple villain interdiction—to the episodic Bonding of old. And as anyone could tell, we were due: The long, Craig-fueled reboot finally complete, Skyfall dumped us right back where we started—with a dude playing M, a leather-paneled door, and heck, even a Moneypenny. Back to the old format. Ray Charles could read those tea leaves.

But those who thought this would mean a return to the misogynist harassment of Connery, the tongue-in-cheeky gags of Moore, or the fluff of Brosnan stands properly disappointed.  Bond has always reflected his time, the zeitgeist shimmering in gunmetal. Our post-9/11 Bond is Craig, and he is hard, and he is cold. This is the era of Casino Royale, of Bond as a diesel thug in quite-tight Tom Ford, of Parkour and ugly wounds. If you want lasers and fluffy cats and sixties camp, they’re only a Blu-Ray away. Find them here, you shall not.

(That’s the second paragraph I’ve finished like Yoda. Stop, I cannot.)

So given Bond has rebooted in format but not in mood, what does Spectre do? We find Bond chasing a posthumous breadcrumb to Mexico City, where the much-talked-about opening scene occurs. From there he jets to London, Rome, Austria, Morocco, and a north African train. He drives a prototype Aston Martin, flies a plane (once!) and helicopters (twice!), strides about in the snow, shoots PPKs and VP9s and wears a suitable succession of sleek outfits to please his plethora of sartorial devotees. In short, he does what he’s meant do to.

And Spectre is a great ride. Red Bull demonstration pilot and general whirlywizard Chuck Aaron paints his modified ship olive drab and does some signature barrel rolls (not CGI!), which is great to see in IMAX. (I saw him perform in person in 2009; despite a dazzling display of aerodynamic impossibility, what drew the biggest roar was the way he dipped the helicopter in a little bow to the crowd at the end.) I’m no fan of falsetto but I confess to really enjoying Sam Smith’s title song. And Lea Seydoux is fetching and French, the snow is white, the action is crisp, and throwbacks are everywhere. It’s visually clean. It’s a pleasure to watch. This is a production team at the top of their game.

Sure, it falls short at times. First, Spectre sins by once again making this all about Bond himself, his past, his childhood, and personal vendettas against the agent. Mendes, stop. Second, Daniel Craig seems a bit tired of the role—he’s phoning it in, at times. And without stern mother hen Judi Dench to scold and also to pardon, there’s not much to offset Bond’s broody stalks around London. Dave Bautista’s kept on a too-short leash, never allowed to mine the best from his fearsome Mr. Hinx. And Christoph Waltz plays villain Blofeld a little too plain, a little too boring. His plan for world domination—universal surveillance!—sends no more chills here than it did in the Robocop reboot. And why should it? Why should a public that’s already acquiesced completely to the Examined Life suddenly muster indignance here? It is, it seems, a topic best left for NPR rants and the writhings of the legal academy and their “blawgs.” Mass surveillance as bad guy = fail. No one cares. Thus spake the surveilled hordes.

Spectre isn’t Skyfall, and it isn’t meant to be. It’s Bond back in action, flying and driving and cutting a pose and quipping and drinking. It’s a Bond who’s nearing the end of his run. Let’s enjoy him while we can.

Haus Verdict: Skyfall foretold a return to Bond of yore, and here he is. Errs on the personal side, still, but clean, shiny, and fun.