This is the second essay in a 23-part series about the James Bond cinemas published on the Sundog Lit Mag Blog. I encourage everyone to journey over to Sundog to read,  comment and join in what we hope to be an extended conversation about not only the films themselves, but cinematic trends, political and other external influences on the series’ tone and direction, etc.

Of [In]human Bond[age] #2: The Dr. No Adaptation and the Curious Case of How a Giant Squid Helped Define James Bond
originally published on Sundog Lit

The introduction of “Bond. James Bond” in Dr. No.

Adaptation is a tenuous business. To use a recent example of high-stakes adaptation, consider the cinematic choices made at the beginning of the Harry Potter series. Consider how those choices carried on throughout the 8-movie cycle, the design of the Hogwarts castle, the casting choices for primary roles, the score, etc. Even though Harry Potter used the books as blueprints whenever possible, the movies required concrete visual and aural choices to translate a book to the big screen. This is all the stuff your vivid imagination filled in as you read the books. None of it conscious injection.

While anticipation for the first James Bond movie did not rival that of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Dr. No, nonetheless, required some calculated decisions on the part of it’s tag-team producers, Harry Saltzman and Albert R. Broccoli. Where the Potter team had unlimited visual possibilities through CGI technology and an inherently screen-ready source material, the screenwriters for the first James Bond adaptation had a character. A character populating a series of spy novels with unfilmable scenes of sex, nudity and, with regard to Dr. No in particular, a fight with a giant squid. (The squid will return in a bit.) More importantly, the James Bond of the Fleming novels was troubled, nuanced and a bit morose. Put simply: an impossible cinematic action hero in a film that aspired to be escapist fare.

The world fell madly in love with a sociopath

Saltzman and Broccoli always intended to turn these Ian Fleming spy novels into a series of movies. (The story of acquiring the rights to James Bond is fascinating and far too complicated for the space I have reserved here. Read the Vanity Fair article here. It’s more than worth your time.) They may not have considered a 23-film series, but they certainly understood that the choices made in Dr. No regarding Bond’s character could terminate the series before it even began. Watching Dr. No with this in mind, I was shocked to note how many elements from this very first Bond film became permanent fixtures.  The gun-barrel opening, the pre-credit sequence, Monty Norman’s timeless theme, “Bond, James Bond.” All of these tropes we associate with Bond were on-the-fly creative decisions, not adaptation.

First, let’s look more closely at how material from the novels was used to create the Bond character. The many screenwriters that had a hand in creating the Dr. No screenplay seemed to understand that the Ian Fleming novels lacked some necessary humor. (The original, and soon dismissed, writers made Dr. No a villainous monkey.) The spy is dour, calculating and far more professional than his cinematic counterpart. One might say that cinema Bond is book Bond’s counterparty. (Laugh track optional.) Cinematic James Bond runs a car of assassins off the side of a cliff. A bystander asks where they were headed in such a hurry. Bond says, “I think they were on their way to a funeral.” The one-liners, the glib entrendres were purely cinematic inventions to soften Bond and provide a spoonful of sugar for the violence inherent to stories of international espionage.

When it came to the novel’s sexual content, the producers had no choice but to remove, excise and revise. Perhaps oddly, however, in downgrading the overt sexuality, they turned James Bond into an overt sexual predator. The novel depicts famous Bond heroine Honey Rider emerging from the water completely naked except for her knife belt. Of course, Bond is lustful, but he hardly expresses his desires to Honey Rider, fearing he might spook her. In fact, he spends much of this moment in the novel dissecting the way her crooked nose both detracts and enhances her beauty. In the Dr. No film, the perfect, pristine Ursula Andress, famously, makes her entrance from the water in her legendary white bikini (nudity, not optional for light 1960’s cinema).

James Bond: Don’t worry. I’m not supposed to be here either.
Honey Rider: Are you looking for shells too?
James Bond: No, I’m just looking.

Throughout the novel, in fact, Honey throws herself at James, at times begging openly for sexual relations. Bond refuses, despite his lucid desire for her, because he must stay hungry and alert while on a mission.

WHAT?

If we know one thing about cinematic Bond it’s that he’ll do the girl. Is she good, evil, somewhere in between? Time of crisis or calm? It really doesn’t matter. He’ll do her. But in Fleming’s Dr. No, James Bond shows repeated restraint and focus. Until the end, of course, when they shag like animals in a sleeping bag. The production team for the movie chose, deliberately, to depict Bond as the aggressor, the would-be sexual predator… as in he would be a sexual predator if he weren’t so damn handsome, confident and crassly poetic. We’re more than happy to overlook his sexual deviancy as a quality rather than a character flaw. Why is that?

Examine Bond’s cinematic introduction – a scene created specifically for the movie (and partially lifted from the first Bond novel, Casino Royale). Sean Connery appears at a casino table in a tuxedo, playing chemin de fer and smoking a cigarette. He’s winning big and flirting with Slyvia Trench (Eunice Gayson), a woman created to be pure liquid sex. As a Bond fan, this scene causes pure rapture.

James Bond: I admire your courage, Miss…?
Sylvia Trench: Trench. Sylvia Trench. I admire your luck, Mr…?
James Bond: Bond. James Bond.

Thus the famous introduction is born, first uttered, curiously, by someone other than Bond. Moments later the two are shown, post-coital. This moment; the high-stakes gambling, flirtation with and subsequent bedding of an arbitrary woman; defines Bond, not only for the film, but also for the entire series. Sex becomes the character’s expected right and privilege. We worship Bond, like a god among men, for his confidence, his ability to woo a woman with a raised eyebrow and witty banter.  It is not depicted as aggression, despite the conquering (although, a notable scene in Goldfinger suggests otherwise) because the women in question are more than complicit.

The actor playing Bond, of course, had a huge impact on the cinematic direction. The reality of Sean Connery is this: a course everyman cleaned up and stuffed in a monkey suit. He is both appealing and relatable but also unfathomably attractive, boasting the carriage of a demigod. These traits carry over to Bond, the cinematic character. The narratives portray Bond also as a predictable slave to his many vices. Risk. Danger. Liquor. Women. This moment defines not only the James Bond of Dr. No but also the James Bond of 22 subsequent films. Each actor that has filled 007’s shoes has derived their treatment of the character from these first few minutes of on-screen presence.

But now back to the giant squid

Ian Fleming apparently channeled Jules Verne for the climax of his novel. Imagine screenwriters sitting down in 1961 to discuss a treatment of Dr. No. “A ripping yarn for sure, but what about this hubbub about a giant squid?” An impossible task that, if put on film, would have made Bela Lugosi wrestling the killer octopus in Ed Wood’s Bride of the Monster seem like high art. In the novel, Dr. No has devised a series of tests for Bond’s escape, culminating in a face-off with the giant squid, during which Bond clings to a fence while the ancient beast grabs and rips at him with its tentacles, beating it back with a knife he smuggled out of dinner in his trousers.

Imagine audience reaction to this scene, no matter the staging quality. Most likely, the film’s low budget removed all consideration for the squid scene or the prior, convoluted challenges created by Dr. No to test Bond’s will to suffer, to endure pain. Instead, movie Bond escapes from a conveniently placed air duct (a supremely inane escape twist considering the supposed evil genius of Dr. No), steals a radiation suit to go incognito, offs some bad guys and rescues the girl. Standard operating procedure. Quick, easy, painless. His shirt’s torn and sweaty, but that’s the extent of his struggle.

In the book, Bond endures deep second-degree burns on his hands and knees, cuts himself deeply across the chest in defense of the squid, passes out repeatedly from pain and fails to save the girl because Honey has already freed herself by the time he arrives. These things, these bumps and bruises, these moments of surrender to pain, they are human concerns, not the troubles of a demigod. Scene to scene, we are ever-faithful that James Bond maintains total control of the situation. Signs of weakness or doubt might shatter the illusion. And though later movies and different incarnations of the character will begin to tear at the fabric of his godly suits, we expect James Bond to survive, to sleep with the girl, to win the day.

Do we owe this expectation of impregnability to the giant squid that forced the producers and screenwriters of this first cinematic James Bond adventureto entirely excise Dr. No’s torturous obstacle course? I’m suggesting we do. And it’s about time the giant squid got its due recognition.

[All together now.]

Thank you giant squid, for without your absurdly bizarre inclusion into the Ian Fleming novel, and the subsequent forced removal of huge sections of the book from the screen adaptation, James Bond might not have returned in From Russia With Love and our half-century love affair with a sociopath might not have been possible.

Today I launched the first of a 23-part essay about the James Bond series of cinemas over on the Sundog Lit Mag. I encourage everyone to journey over to the Sundog Blog to read,  comment and join in what we hope to be an extended conversation about not only the films themselves, but cinematic trends, political and other external influences on the series’ tone and direction, etc. The entire project will be collected on the Of [In]human Bond[age] Tumblr.

Of [In]human Bond[age]: Skyfall and the Question of Spacetime
originally published on Sundog Lit

The Bond film franchise, now aged fifty, has endured long enough to have had the luxury of multiple reinventions and course corrections, informed, directly, by the rapid shifts of the sociological and political tides. Bond is both a reflection of our deepest fears and of our guiltiest aspirations. Women want him and men want to be him, so the saying goes. Or went, perhaps. Our modern cynicism and over-intellectualization has re-rendered that phrase. James Bond has become the man that women want, in theory… if he weren’t such a serial womanizer with a thrill-addiction. He is still, however, the man that men want to be, no caveats. Draw your own assumptions about how the collective male id has evolved over the last fifty years. Bond has become a character in our modern commedia, played by six different actors (all informed by the original on-screen Bond, Sean Connery) and parodied and re-imagined the world over, no more or less human than Pierrot the fool.

Taken at face value, however, James Bond’s cinematic escapades in international espionage are a collection of stories taken from the career of one man. Independent scholars John Griswold and Henry Chancellor have taken it upon themselves to assemble the original Ian Fleming novels into chronological order based on the events contained within. The films, however, prove more problematic. If the latest, excellent entry into Bond’s resume, Skyfall, has cemented one notion about chronology it is that the Bond films cannot be treated as isolated escapades along an individual timeline. Not even suspension of disbelief can atone for Skyfall’s temporal incongruities (even within the movie itself). Must we then consider the Bond series as multiple serials distinguished only by the actor playing the role? (Also made problematic by recurring, self-referential leitmotifs.) Or is it something more complicated, like the intertwining plots of a collection of linked short stories with no particular start or finish?

To offer a simple comparison, consider the various cinematic iterations of the Sherlock Holmes character, widely considered the most prolific character in the history of film. Holmes has been played by Ellie Norwood, John Barrymore, Basil Rathbone, Jeremy Brett, Robert Downey, Jr. and Benedict Cumberbatch among many others. None of these film series extend beyond the character playing Sherlock.

What director Sam Mendes has wrought with Skyfall forces a re-interpretation (or at the very least encourages a more scholastic examination) of the Bond film chronology. The first Bond film, Dr. No, offers no origin story of the character. Bond is, already, an experienced and expert British intelligence agent with a weakness for the ladies. It is, per say, in medias res. It is only in Skyfall, Bond’s 23rd film that we are offered a glimpse into his past with any clarity. And it wasn’t until Daniel Craig assumed the role in Casino Royale (the 21st movie, but 1st Fleming novel) that the Bond character was considered a newly minted and irresponsible rookie agent with more significant depth. Bond has been irresponsible for decades, but only now was he considered a “rookie.” The fact that audiences simultaneously balked and swooned at the novelty of James Bond falling in *gasp* love and then seeking revenge for the death of that significant other, speaks volumes about the character development up to this point.

*Skyfall spoilers ahead*

Furthermore, Skyfall introduces audiences to a James Bond with deceased parents, motivation for joining the British Secret Service, to his childhood home in Scotland and the underground pathway in which James Bond hid after the death of those aforementioned parents. James Bond has a childhood home!?! Inconceivable. But these facts aren’t problematic for the character’s chronology, necessarily. They are only problematic because of our external assumptions that James Bond is immune to emotions that would detract from A) womanizing and B) eventually, complete his assigned mission. If Spock had any desire to chase tail, he might be closer to our collective understanding (or previously held understanding) of James Bond.

Skyfall’s specific chronological schisms occur, however, because he is allegedly a bit of a green agent. Bond has been given his first big break, two films earlier, in Casino Royale and spent the entirety of Quantum of Solace as a bit of a vengeful rogue. A major to-do has been made in Skyfall that James Bond may or may not be forced into retirement because he’s lost his edge. After a particularly botched mission to open the film, James is alienated, lost and considered dead by British Intelligence. In reality he’s experiencing a kind of mid-life crisis and drinking himself into oblivion somewhere along the Turkish coast. When Bond at last returns (somewhat reluctantly) to defend Britain from a mastermind cyber terrorist, he’s a shell of himself and the film dances around (albeit rather eloquently) the “I’m getting too old for this shit” over-the-hill hero catchphrase. The notion has traction because as an audience we have knowledge of Bond actor Daniel Craig’s age (44) but it runs contrary to the earlier assertion of Bond’s greenhorn status. At this point I’m not even prepared to acknowledge the chronological disturbance brought about by a sprightly 58-year-old Roger Moore appearing in A View to a Kill. But how are to reconcile that even within 143 minutes of Skyfall Bond waffles between being a unpredictable rookie and a potential retiree?

Follow me further down the rabbit hole. Bond fans are then treated to the return of the Aston Martin DB5, the vehicle most identified with James Bond, the vehicle that first appeared in 1964’s Goldfinger (starring Sean Connery). It is unveiled to the audience as if Craig’s James Bond has a pre-existing relationship with the car. In truth it is not Craig’s Bond that has a relationship with the car, but us, having brought our collective knowledge of the entire Bond oeuvre into the theater with us. The same principle functions when a supporting character in the movie, an agent that has followed Bond on his globetrotting, reveals herself (after resigning from field duty to a clerical position within MI-6) to be none other than Eve… Eve Moneypenny. A character played by Lois Maxwell in the very first Bond adventure, 1962’s Dr. No.

The temporal mischief makes almost your brain hurt more than the time-travel narrative in the Terminator series. Almost. But we are rescued from certain brain cramp by the above-stated notion that these Bond movies are interweaving and unlimited, bridged, almost seamlessly, by our own pre-existing knowledge of the character – a proto-prescience perhaps. This proto-prescience encourages James Bond filmmakers to break the fourth wall with nudge-nudge-wink-winks that make no sense in the isolated conditions of the individual film. Not only are we carrying around the baggage of all other Bonds, but so too are the filmmakers.

That Skyfall succeeds at being an excellent film despite gleefully throwing about the requisite Bond baggage is no small miracle. Of the recent films, say from the Brosnan-era forward, only 1995’s Goldeneye really succeeded at being both. If you go back further you’d be hard pressed to find a film that qualifies, objectively, as both solid filmmaking and a solid Bond film (according to the standard set by the Connery-era) until arguably On Her Majesty’s Secret Service in 1969. The entire Roger Moore-era can largely be chalked up to a shift in aesthetics brought about by a response to the cinematic trends of the 1970’s, nevermind the challengers and parodies threatening the Bond status quo.

That’s a lot of baggage in between and a lot of baggage left unsaid. And based on the small examples taken from the latest Bond films, that’s a lot of incongruity. The notion of a infinitely recursive character with increasingly larger baggage has inspired me to go back and re-watch these movies in order from the very beginning to see what threads might evolve from movie to movie, to see what kind of specific evolution of the character (internally or externally imposed) I might have missed by watching them out of order. It’s possible there might be some thread to reconcile and bind all of these different Bonds and temporal anomalies under one roof. It’s also possible that we’ve all just been duped by our own over-intellectualization of a fundamentally two-dimensional character. Either way, it’s an excuse to watch a lot of Bond movies and wax philosophical.

Please visit Sundog Lit to leave comments and join the discussion. Sundog will be hosting a regular screening/live tweet series for each of the James Bond movies starting with Dr. No. Details to come. The result of those live tweet conversations will inspire my subsequent essays on each of the films.

(originally published @ tekhne.com)

Taking a $2.9 billion loss is like taking a punch from Mike Tyson. Ask Michael Spinks if he felt $2.9 billion lighter after his introduction to Tyson’s left hook.

Only Michael Spinks wasn’t expected to get back in the ring. Sony not only has to get back in the ring, they’re expected to return with all their faculties in check and retake the Heavyweight crown after four consecutive years of brutal industry pummeling rather than just 88 seconds.

Incoming CEO Kazuo Hirai isn’t pulling any punches, however. “I have a very strong sense of crisis about the environment surrounding us,” Hirai said at a news conference. “We cannot be afraid to make painful choices for the future of Sony. Our rivals and the operating environment won’t wait for us.”

(originally posted @ Tekhne.com)

In his essay on the effects of the “creative technologist” in the work force, Igor Clark makes a strong case against the proliferation of creative types in fields such as programming and coding. At face value he proffers a valid point, at the very least a talking point. Creatively “trained” individuals often lack the technical expertise to contribute purposefully. And he says the onus is on the employers not to hire undertrained coders, no matter their title, creative or otherwise.

True. True. All true. But the question remains – and this is the hazy, murky, inoperable shade of gray that all companies, not just technological, must face – where does a creatively-oriented employee fit in a palpable-outcome-oriented workplace?

(originally published @ Tekhne.com)

Can mustachioed plumbers, pissed off fowl and anthropomorphic pandas make the world a better place?

The omnipresence of games would seem to point to a market niche for cyber dramas with a purpose.

In addition to the standard venues, people have begun to play video games on their iPhone and Android devices; the iPad and tablet PCs spawned their own genres. Suddenly the gaming possibilities seemed endless. The only question seemed to be how many boundaries could be broken with this new freedom?

Well …

… uh …

… we can play Angry Birds anywhere we go.

(originally published @ Tekhne.com)

a movie review by JAMES DAVID PATRICK

Chris Marker’s La Jetée and Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth walk into a bar.

After La Jetée explains that he’s an experimental short film told through still images and narration, they decide to collaborate on a movie about everything from the Big Bang to Twitter and beyond. A modern movie. A cautionary tale about where we’ve been, where we’re at and where we’re headed. Hours pass. Enthusiasm tempers. Champagne becomes Wild Turkey. How could they thread together a movie about their lives, their fears, the world, globalization in under 90 minutes? They ring Terry Gilliam. Gilliam says, predictably, “With cartoons!” Clearly! They sketch their scattered ideas and doodles on post it notes that wallpaper the bar top. Still the connectivity of it all escapes them. (An important concept in a movie called Connected.) “Excuse me,” a voice says. It’s Michael Bay’s Collective Filmography. “I couldn’t help but overhear how you’re unsure how to bring the audience along on this wild ride of barely related consequences.” La Jetée and An Inconvenient Truth agree that despite the cartoons and charts and flowcharts something is still missing. Bay’s filmography continues. “Easy. Explosions. And the suspension of disbelief.” They rejoice.