guardian 16, 17 feb
The best Bond yet? Pretty much every one of them has arrived with someone or
other pronouncing it to be better than the last. The thing is, though,
they're always sort of right, as the 007 films are made to the highest
technical specifications, created by artists at the top of their game
and giving it their all. As such, the movies are vital as advertising
for Britain's world-class film industry. Skyfall is a Bond movie and,
without getting needlessly hyperbolic, that's reason enough to get
excited; almost without fail, it's a franchise that delivers reliable
thrills and spectacle. This time out, Daniel Craig's spy gets his nose
put out of joint when he ends up shot by one of his fellow agents.
That's enough to make anyone reconsider their career choices, so he
quits the secret service, only to be pulled back in when Javier Bardem's
villainous Raoul Silva arrives with a typically complex and evil plan.
It's obviously ridiculous, but as long as it results in some exotic
globe-trotting, stunts and spectacle then who can complain? What's
different this time is how personal it all is. Silva isn't out to take
over the world, and the film seems to get smaller as it progresses
rather than more spectacular. Skyfall works well, however, as there's
always been plenty of room to manoeuvre in Bond films; they don't have
to be all gadgets and secret bases, though it's great when they are.
After the shambles of Quantum of Solace (I still have no idea what that title meant), it was touch and go whether the Bond franchise, so spectacularly revivified by Casino Royale, actually had a future in the 21st century. Enter secret weapon Mendes
who, 50 years after the screen debut of this very British screen icon,
has ensured that 007 has more bite, relevance and popularity that at any
time in his changeable career.
Focusing first and foremost on story and character but without skimping on the spectacular action set pieces, Skyfall establishes a template for a new era of Bond movies that
acknowledges the past while looking towards the future, balancing the
"orgy of nostalgia" provoked by the appearance of an Aston Martin with a
notable lack of gadgets (goodbye invisible cars, hello snippy remarks
about exploding pens) and a welcome absence of groansome gags. Indeed,
the one moment when Craigs
deconstructed spy seems to slip into Old James offhandedness ("a waste
of good scotch") appears on repeated viewings to suggest a desire to
cover real fear rather than mere callousness. Think about it – when was
the last time you questioned the "motivation" behind a throwaway Bond
quip? That fact alone should tell you just how much Mendes has changed
the game.
Playing the razor-sharp foil to Bond's walking (-dead) wounded is Bardem, long recognised as a connoisseur of the scary haircut (witness No Country for Old Men),
to which he here adds creepy teeth and metrosexual mama's-boy menace.
According to Mendes, most of the villainous Silva's real weirdness came
from Bardem himself, who wanted to beef up the character into a real
three-dimensional nemesis, an ambition that he achieves with aplomb.
But at the heart of it all is the steely M, whose role vacillates between deadpan Mommie Dearest
and no-nonsense operational stalwart, providing the crucial link
between hero and villain that drives the drama. By the time we get to
the third act, with its Straw Dogs-siege and Home Alone-style
DIY aesthetic, Mendes and co have cut right down to the bone with
satisfyingly meaty results. Extras include two commentary tracks, most
notably a nonstop analysis from Mendes, who talks enthusiastically and
engagingly about a film he clearly loves as much of the rest of us.