JAMES BLOND

Where is glib? This is my primary issue. Of course I live for the puns and terrible jokes, the rich foreplay of chauvinism, which have buttered the impenetrable masculinity of Ian Fleming’s leading man on screen for decades.

I can respect Casino Royale as a reset to the beginning and a return to the book. Judi Dench as “M” brilliantly assists in the transition, merging recent old with new old. She’s all there, no question, but the rest of the movie is congealed of half-cross lines which don’t meet up in any kind of believable chemistry. Daniel Craig comes on as serious as the Seventies—now there’s an oxymoron! The train scene is closest to traditional film Bond where he’s undressing Vesper Lynd with his analysis of her clothes, but the scene goes stale with monologuing. I’m too bored to be convinced that he’s attracted to her here, nor am I subsequently swayed to believe he’s in love, ready to give up his career, his body, become pregnant and settle down as a stay-at-home dad. No, I just can’t cash that Bond. The plot is there, but incorrectly played through dialogue.

And what of John Qleese? I Wanda where he went? Nearly Headless Nick was completely non-corporal here. No funny walks, no funny cars to disassemble in description made for a Fawlty film.

Plenty of action, I’ll credit that. Craig shows himself (a lot of himself) to be in shape, not just in a tuxedo. The movie starts with foe and hero in some kind of Jackie Chan Olympic try-out. And I’ll credit director, Martin Campbell, for finding the only fuel truck in Hollywood not to explode. I’m probably more breathless with surprise from that than from the action sequences.

As far as a retrofit to the book, Craig fails to take the character off the page and project him into a three-dimensional person. The movie leaves me shaken, not stirred.