I saw Spectre. I was prepared to love it. I only liked it. This places me squarely in the company of such reviewers as Rene Rodriguez of the Miami Herald (“The opening is exciting, outrageous and a cheeky showcase of cinematic craftsmanship. So why is the rest of the movie so dull? Spectre. . . ,has an aura of finality to it, as well as a perfunctory, let’s-get-this-over-with feel) and Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times (“the story itself is not convincing on its own terms.”) But my insightful friend Paul Lindstrom has sent me this piece by Darren Franich in Entertainment Weekly that makes the case that there is much much more than meets the eye about this film.
“So then Blofeld starts digging his little contraption into Bond’s head,” writes Franich. “I guess maybe he’s just touching nerve endings, maybe? That’s not what it looks like, and it’s also not what Blofeld’s stated purpose is. And is it just a coincidence that — right as the torture is at its most extreme — Madeleine suddenly tells Bond that she loves him? Just a coincidence that, right after that happens, Bond executes an escape that requires logical leaps totally absent from the past few movies: a talking killer who doesn’t notice his prisoner escaping from poorly tied wrist-straps, a top-secret facility rigged to explode in one big chain reaction? And is it just a coincidence that, after that incredible escape, Bond gets to live through a dream of constant catharsis that no other movie ever gave him: a damsel in distress, some pals who can help a friend in need, a damn helicopter-destroying pistol? This is the first time in any of Daniel Craig’s movies that he gets the girl. And not just any girl. . . .
“I know, I know: The obvious answer is that Spectre has a poorly conceived third act, rewritten into obscurity, struggling to balance the divergent necessities of retconning the past four movies into a saga and ending a saga and making some weird point about Bond’s job not letting him ever get close to anyone and letting Bond pull a Dark Knight Rises to run away with his climactic love interest. . . .”
Add to Franich’s list of oddities a few other uncharacteristic bits: Bond yells. Bond cries out in pain. And have we ever seen Bond plead, as he pleaded with Dr. Starr to avoid viewing the clip of her father’s suicide? Did he want to spare her the shock of seeing her father die so violently? Or was he ashamed of his complicity?
Kudos to Franich for his insights, but I’d prefer to think that he has drawn the wrong conclusion. Maybe I don’t feel that Sam Mendes would leave the series in such a muddle. Maybe Daniel Craig’s complaints about playing Bond are a big misdirection. Maybe we should listen closely to Miss Moneypenny, who early in the picture says “I think you’re just getting started.” Maybe Spectre is just a set up for something the series has never really had–a sequel!