The Bond Identity
Licensed to Die
a kindly review of 007: Spectre
by David Clemmer
Spectre, the twenty-somethingth, umpteenth, whateverth installment in the (rebooted?) Sexist Misogynist Dinosaur franchise, is possibly the worst one ever. Of course, I wouldn’t really know, nor would I want to know, because that would mean drinking and distracting my way through a bloated and tired back-catalog of movies that have done nothing to serve our culture other than to glorify violence and virility.
Like, Oh, okay, that car’s supposed to be sexy. Or something. I’m supposed to’ve read about this car in some magazine or something, and discussed its virtues over some liquor I can’t afford at a men-only poker game. And that woman is supposed to be the very ne plus ultra of my every primal desire. I’m supposed to desire naught else but to ███████ her in the ██████ █████ ███████ ███ while ████ ████████ ███ ████████ ████████ then ██████████ █████ █████████ ████ ███ ██ █ ██████ █████████ ███████████ ███ █████ into a $1,000 pair of Vicuna socks. And the manner in which he dispatched those bad guys was top-notch gentlemanly, and his quip could fuel a sex-rocket to Alpha Centauri.
That’s why my interest picked up in the Craig-era movies. Because these tropes started to fall off like all the crisp skin flakes of all of Jimmy’s sexually-transmitted diseases. But now the infection is back, and it’s raging, and no ointment is going to erase the burn unless you amputate.
What, you thought you’d have to click ‘Read More’ before getting to a dick reference? I have my own tropes too.