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Ah, got you. You thought I would, didn’t you? You thought I’d start this article with that phrase. That Phrase. The words that are so over-used if they were a book they’d be barely legible. You’ve seen it so many times, haven’t you? The name’s Bond, dot, dot, dot, raising of eyebrow, short breath, sly-looking mini-smile, James Bond. I, for one, long for the day when That Phrase sounded fresh and exciting and sent a shiver down the spine of every fan of Ian Fleming’s successful series.
Technically, it shouldn’t be so hugely successful. It should never have spawned into the longest and most profitable film series and franchise ever. I mean, just look at it! An unlikely and inaccurate theme and plot (it’s nothing like the real MI6) full of the worst clichés ever to have thundered the speakers of cinemas across the globe. And yet James Bond 007 is the most famous fictional spy ever to have graced the big screen, with nineteen (twenty this autumn) box office hits since 1962. The first, Dr. No, was United Artists’ (who are now owned by MGM) adaptation of Fleming’s novel (as most of the early films were), with the then-rising star (and now Sir) Sean Connery taking on the famous role — and the rest, as they say, was a cash-filled history.
The formula is, it appears, winning: MI6 agent, Royal Navy commander, and all-round super spy James Bond is sent on a mission to an exotic place where he has to defeat some evil foreign madman trying to blow up the entire world for his own benefit. Along the way, he’ll bed two, maybe three beautiful ladies with exotic and alluring names. And somehow, by hook or by crook, he’ll narrowly avoid death. This formula is used for each and every single movie. It’s oddly captivating.
Now, I consider myself a fan. I must confess, I’ve seen every movie they’ve made, and I certainly plan to see the twentieth, Die Another Day, later this year. I also have the odd book about Bond. But am I obsessed? The subject of obsession has cropped up recently with the release of the new Star Wars film. I don’t think I am obsessed. I don’t think 007 is a cult, to be honest. I don’t dress up like the lady-magnet regularly. I don’t spend my days looking at people and thinking, he’d make a great villain, or she could be the next Moneypenny. I don’t think Bond fans are like that.
Star Wars and Star Trek fans are obsessed. Being the kind of people that they are, they need to be. They enjoy dressing in extravagant clothing, waving about lit-up sticks, wearing tight lycra and silly ears. They like to set up forums and web sites and MUDS and MOOS (what are those?) and live outside a cinema for months and attend conventions to meet fellow obsessives and console each other’s social ineptitude. Bond fans aren’t like this; they’re quietly obsessed. But I’m not obsessed at all. Just a fan. Okay?
Die Another Day will not stray too far from its nineteen predecessors. It will be devoid of any similarities to real-life secret agents, contain horrible clichés and feature over-attractive sexually-willing women. But I suppose that’s the beauty of Bond; you can turn your brain off for a couple of hours and just enjoy some no-nonsense mixture of action and sex. And, just as certain as I am that I won’t be ending this with That Phrase, you can be certain that the upcoming twentieth installment of the world’s most genitally-active spy will rake in the cash for MGM like a telethon for disabled babies.
