Casino Royale

Seeing as I’m probably the last person on the planet to watch the new Bond film, it seems a little redundant to be writing a review of it, but I’ve never been one to let irrelevance get in the way of pontification, so here goes:

Casino Royale (2006) [1] is an exceedingly juvenile film – an unconvincing mish-mash of staples from the thriller genre (I mean, please, an oil tanker fight, a high speed car chase AND a poker game!) with a plot that has the consistency of Swiss cheese, duly seasoned with liberal dollops of mush. For most of the movie, its protagonist lives perilously on the edge of the ridiculous, and for all its tortured soul-searching the film has the emotional depth of a three day old puddle. It’s an almost complete waste of time, except for one not so minor detail – Daniel Craig.

This new Bond is as beautiful as bitter almonds. He is, quite simply, the most dangerous thing to come out of Britain since Margaret Thatcher’s economic policies. He’s a thug, which is a shock in itself, but he’s a particularly lethal thug, a new species of man whose survival instinct seems to be predicated on the belief that offense is the best defense. To watch Craig explode into action on the screen is to see the true poetry of violence brought vividly to…errr…life. This is not a man who needs to be corseted in fancy weaponry to get the job done, this is someone who kills with his bare hands with the skill and discretion of a masseur; give him a handgun and he’s liable to take out a few buildings. Even walking out of the sea in nothing but a blue swimsuit (and looking divine) he has the look of someone who’s been wrestling sharks for fun.
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