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.
I heard this morning on the radio that a film called ‘Pleasure’ is being released in the USA. According to the news bulletin, it’s a shocking exploration of the seedy ins and outs of the pornography industry. I naively thought it might be a documentary, but it is in fact a feature-length film about one woman’s attempt to become an elite pornstar. It is supposed to be a revealing of the sexual coercion that up-and-coming pornstars have to go through in order both to keep their jobs and to advance in their careers. While I haven’t seen the film, the trailer offers a glamorised version of this rapacious industry, with beautiful models, expensive houses and papparazzi parties.
It’s ironic then that critics have been getting their knickers in a twist about whether James Bon can have sex or not. And it would appear that he cannot. While the antiquated hero has visibly aged in this modern world, all the young ones are on the East Coast doing what it takes to make it.
Is this because the American Cary Joji Fukunaga has to tread a tightrope of media storms and public relations about a fictional character whose chequered past sounds off in today’s world, while Sweden’s Ninja Thyberg has carte blanche? Is it a cultural check from across the Pond, a reminder that the English are stuffy and the Americans emancipated? Or is it because we are afraid of sexualised older people in the mainstream and want to carry on this cult of youth in order to escape the crushing reality that, one day, everything will sag?
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