I have been watching all the Bond films, in order, with my dad. Every Sunday, with the exception of the chaos that was March, I go round and eat lunch and we sit down for a couple of hours to watch the next thing on the list.
We have done all the Connery films. We endured the brief reign of George Lazenby, who would have been an interesting Bond if he could have signed up for a longer period and worked with directors who were not the director of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
A few weeks back, we hit the Moore era.
Moore was my Bond. When I was a kid, and the Bond films appeared on TV, he was always the man stuffed inside the tuxedo and ordering a martini. He defined Bond for me: the cheesy puns; the awkwardness that’s presented as charm; the ridiculous gadgets. I worked off the theory that I liked the Moore era.
Oh, gods.
Oh, gods, that is not the case.
Most of the seventies-era bonds where Moore was in the role are the kind of films I would gnaw my own arm off to escape. I came to dread Sundays, a little, ’cause it would mean another one.
Last Sunday, we hit the first film of Timothy Dalton’s career.
And again, I never rated Dalton that much. He was not the Bond of my childhood, therefore I resented him when he stepped into the role the same way people resent a new actor in the role of Doctor Who.
But the Living Daylights? Actually really fun, for a Bond film. Makes at least one smart narrative decision which made me squee with delight. Keeps some of the absurd gadgetry of the Moore era, but grounds everything so it doesn’t seem quite so unreal.
It’s the first Bond film I’ve genuinely enjoyed since the sixties instalments of the series.
