Friday night was Bond night (because the Brothers Karamazov at the Théâtre de l’Odéon was, alas, sold out) and I’m suddenly not satisfied with my simple Swatch. And I’ve also started wondering whether the Paris Metro really is all that great – wouldn’t it be comfier and sexier to whip about in a Land Rover or Aston Martin? And what about my own run-of-the-mill holidays to rainy Lancashire? I should be off to the south coast of Italy to burn my secrets in the balmy Mediterranean air.
The film has mixed reviews, which I suppose I’m ambivalent about. Some say it lacks balls (too soon?), that it’s a three-hour perfume ad or that killing James is just unforgivable. Others will say that Bond in love offers more depth to the dialogue, that the colouring and cinematography are beautiful, and the timing is slick.
Personally, I enjoyed it, despite being worried that I had selected a dubbed version due to the pesky first scene in French and was wondering whether we’d have time to get over to the 21h30 viewing that I know is VO. But I didn’t look at my (now unsatisfactory) watch once and I felt the appropriate emotions when the action indicated me to do so.
While Bond struggles with conflicting feelings over the possibility of domestication, here I am having to get up at some ungodly hour just to fit some writing in. I guess you and I are not so different after all, Mr Bond.