The “third phase”, as typified by the Roger Moore
films, is to James Bond what Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is to
Indiana Jones: it’s the tongue in cheek and self-effacing spin on the
established franchise elements. It’s also finely dramatic and majestic when the
mood takes it…
“This never happened to the other fella.”
James Bond
(George Lazenby) in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969)
It
would seem an odd fact that one of the earlier, more straight-faced and revered
James Bond films was also the first to deliver such a memorably "fourth
wall”-breaking moment. Although, actually, is it all that surprising? On Her
Majesty’s Secret Service, after all, followed five staggeringly successful
James Bond films. And these five instalments were more than just films;
together, they constituted a cultural phenomenon. Coupled with this, On Her
Majesty’s Secret Service was the first Bond film released without the (what
had become) iconic visage of Sean Connery imprinted on its celluloid. Why not
spare a moment, then, for an acknowledgement – a shared joke between filmmakers
and their close-to-worldwide audience – of the Connery-Bond’s impact on popular
culture?
An
ironic wink at the audience had been bubbling away from the moment the film
character debuted – although it didn’t involve such self-reflexive joshing.
That would come later. The deliberations between director Terence Young and
Connery – to inject a wry, knowing humour into the character – are well
documented. I would refer to this addition as James Bond's second
phase. The first phase is Ian Fleming’s literary
character – largely humourless, coolly deliberate, womanising, sometimes
self-doubting and melancholic – and the world he operated within – a largely
recognisable but definitely heightened version of reality. While the second phase lightened, if not removed,
the melancholia of the literary character, the early films were still largely
straight-faced, if fanciful, affairs.
In
these early years, no one could have envisaged (or dared to hope) that the film
character and his world would become so iconic. The third phase in James Bond's existence is seen primarily in the Bond
films made between 1971 and 1985, where the film series had moved from
"phenomenon" to "institution". This phase seemed in large
part to emerge as a response to the film series’ ascension into cultural
folklore. These films include a range of explicit and broadly humorous plays on
James Bond’s cultural status, as well as a wink at Bond's invulnerability.
Roger
Moore, who portrayed James Bond from 1973 to 1985, was particularly keyed in to
the logic of this third phase. And he could play off it as well; it was a happy
marriage. In 1984, he noted: "What we are saying to the audience is:
'Look, you've been seeing these things for 22 years and they are intended to be
fun, and we want you to laugh with us, not at us."1 Moore is
capturing not only a sense of Bond’s cultural place, but also an interesting irony/anxiety
that emerges with enduring film heroes; that is, on the basis of great
box-office and intense public recognition and enthusiasm, the hero survives a
steady stream of fanciful scenarios, but, in the process, cannot help but
acquire a faintly ridiculous air – a point typically compounded by the wave of
spoofy imitators that follow in a phenomenon’s wake.
This
tendency, plus accumulating accusations of outdated-ness from media
commentators, can leave even a coolly sardonic character on the precipice of
mockery. And in James Bond’s case, On Her Majesty's Secret Service's
box-office underperformance – comparatively speaking – didn't appear to
reassure the Bond team that an overwhelmingly serious tone would satisfy a
large audience in the foreseeable future. The development of a third phase for James Bond was perhaps
unsurprising.
Some
could contend that Moore's comment ("these films are meant to be
fun") is playing to his typically recognised strengths – Bond as urbane
gentleman spy, tongue planted in cheek – rather than alluding to the danger,
physicality and mocking humour that Connery had famously brought to the
character. Except that the Connery-Bond and his universe in 1971's Diamonds
Are Forever – the Bond film directly preceding Moore's introduction – had
already taken a marked step towards pop cultural jokiness, and with it, a wry
send-up of Bond's vices (snobbishness, machismo, materialism) and a mellowing
of the character's rougher edges. Moore, in this regard, simply got on board
with the new sentiment. And by his third Bond film, 1977's The Spy Who
Loved Me, this sentiment had been distilled into a brand of its own.
Anyway,
such audio and visual pop cultural jokes included: Bond's Tarzan yell and the
snake charmer summoning Bond with The James Bond Theme (“That’s a charming
tune”) in 1983's Octopussy; the accompaniment of The Beach Boys’
classic, California Girls, as Bond improvises a snowboard escape in
1985's A View to a Kill; the inclusion of Maurice Jarre’s Lawrence of
Arabia theme in The Spy Who Loved Me, and Elmer
Bernstein’s The Magnificent Seven theme in 1979's Moonraker, as
an accompaniment to Bond's globe-trotting; the usage of Close Encounters of
The Third Kind’s five-note musical motif as an access code in Moonraker;
Margaret Thatcher's endorsement of James Bond in 1981's For Your Eyes Only;
Connery-Bond winking at the audience
in the unofficial Bond film, Never Say Never Again (1983), in
response to a question reminiscent of that long-standing cultural rumination:
"Will Connery's Bond return?" Each example here plays like a self-reflexive joke
on the character's own significant position in popular culture. Such moments
may seem baffling and even irritating for some (Why mess with the “smooth
sophistication" of the Sixties?) and yet, in a historical and
cumulative sense, make amusing, intuitive sense to others.
This sort of humour, I believe, can
be misconstrued by commentators. The use of California Girls, for
example, is often read as the filmmakers excitedly asking the audience,
"Bond is surfing – you get it? You get it??" I don't think the impression
of Bond surfing would be lost on any audience member, irrespective of whether
or not California Girls was used; the point is the playful engagement
with popular culture. That's where the enjoyment lies. But if you assume it's
the filmmakers operating under some erroneous impression that they’re being
wonderfully clever, it stands to reason you'll be unimpressed.
A
knowing wink towards Bond's pop cultural status, as well as his ongoing
survival of multitudinous fanciful situations, was also delivered through
moments where Bond's dynamic spy universe bumped shoulders with the deluded,
bewildered and clumsy "real world". Examples of clumsy and deluded
"ordinary" men included Joe Flood’s police captain in A View to a
Kill and Roy Hollis’ sheriff in Diamonds are Forever, while
bewildered members of the "real world" included the tourists of
Corsica (The Spy Who Loved Me) and Venice (Moonraker). Moore responds
to the broader scenarios superbly, gliding through each with a studied
nonchalance, and providing the punch line with an ironic glance or raised
eyebrow.
Was this third phase a step too far beyond the parameters of a good spy
fantasy? Or was it that a new flavour of Bondian fantasy had been created?
Certainly, while you can see how Moore's films could leave a Fleming and early
Connery fan unsettled, equally you can see how Moore could win over other
audiences. His realm was the self-reflexive, self-parodying Bond fantasy that
would prevail for over a decade, effectively undercutting the series' extensive
history of "smooth sophistication" and Connery-Bond’s
imperialist-style mockery – lest any commentators cut those ones down to size first,
or claim them as outdated. Moore's "We want you to laugh with us, not at
us", in many respects, says all that needs to be said.
In fact, with the broader humour
laced through the narratives, a certain impression is left for the audience: “smooth
sophistication” may be fun to watch, even to imitate (at least in a self-aware,
tongue in cheek fashion), but it isn’t to be taken too seriously. The
arrogant, snobbish sting is taken out of the sophistication, a development in
the series again welcomed by some, not by others. This is no early-Connery
"aspirational" sophistication; in fact, the broad situations have a
downright subversive effect – there's nothing quite like unpretentious humour
to lay bare the pretentiousness inherent in "cultivating a sophisticated
self".
Interestingly, the majority of these third phase films, like the later, more
slapstick-infused Indiana Jones films – Indiana Jones and the Last
Crusade (1989) and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
(2008) – still contain some of the series’ most dramatic and resonant passages,
and often-times contain notably mature themes. Furthermore, while Moore
could pull off the self-reflexive tone that the filmmakers felt was the wisest
path to take, he could equally deliver the drama. "We want you to laugh
with is, not at us" could be rounded out with "so you'll accept us
when it's time to play seriously." This
latter strength of Moore's is typically overlooked in critical conjecture –
indeed, it's often overlooked by Moore himself – and his tenure is broadly
characterised as tongue in cheek. But Moore, along with Indiana Jones’
Harrison Ford, is a leading candidate for the best worried eyes in show
business – a welcome feature that brings an extra level of engagement to
dramatic moments. Both Moore and Ford can also navigate the realm of the
ridiculous with an amusing look of mock bemusement.
This combination of qualities is
probably best demonstrated in Moore's sixth Bond film, Octopussy. This
is a film that has often been regarded as an awkward mix of tongue-in-cheek
cliff-hangers and Cold War tension. And awkward these proceedings would be – if
another actor were leading them. (Do punters mentally replace Moore with
Connery as they are watching? Do they assess the material independently of
Moore’s presence?) Moore - lightly parodic yet dramatic - unifies the
material with ease and finesse.
He's certainly the actor needed to
weather a character such as Clifton James’ J.W. Pepper. In the realm of third phase pop cultural jokes, I would
contend that Pepper is a step too far, although there is a clear point to his
existence: a grotesquery of what is, apparently, an already pretty grotesque
creature - the southern sheriff - he singlehandedly balances the ledger on the
high volume of devious African-American characters featured in 1973's Live
and Let Die. And Live and Let Die, so colourful and cartoonish, is
certainly the most appropriate Bondian context for Pepper to appear. But the
filmmakers repeatedly return to his antics during the speedboat chase sequence
– and this tends to deprive the sequence of a certain momentum. (These jokes
typically need to be fairly quick and throwaway in design.)
This is similarly the case with
Pepper's encore in 1974’s The Man with Golden Gun, where the sheriff has
seemingly been carted to Thailand by his wife, and continually bumps shoulders
with “that British Secret Agent”. What almost legitimises Pepper's return is
Moore's low-key responses to his antics. (Jaws and Dolly’s union in Moonraker
is likely another step too far, although the shades of Frankenstein’s Monster
and the ill-fated child at least gives the joke an interesting edge.)
Of
course, the prevalence of this third
phase would soon pass as the trends (and the box-office) of the day
suggested a new paradigm was needed. It came in the shape of Timothy Dalton,
who was directly summoning Fleming's Bond. But remnants of the third phase remained, particularly when
a pursued Bond inadvertently took his Aston Martin for a spin across an icy
plain. And "cool sophistication" continued to be undercut, although
in a different fashion: while the sophistication was played seriously, Dalton's
spy, at heart, seemed unhappy. Arrogant sophistication bore little contentment.
Dalton
and Daniel Craig's films are, by and large, more Fleming-esque in their
presentations of Bond and his world - more first phase, if you will. In
a sense, though, there has subsequently been less need for
self-reflexive joshing, as the introductions of the three succeeding Bonds have
possessed a greater sense of “reboot”: Dalton,
because we now had a Bond actor who was noticeably younger than his predecessor
(not a particular achievement given Moore was 58 years when he officially
retired); Pierce Brosnan, because Bond had been off-screen for six years; and
Craig, because his tenure commenced with an explicit “Bond Begins” scenario.
Moore, in contrast to Dalton, was a couple of years older than Connery
(if slightly younger looking); there was the sense that Moore was continuing
the character's adventures, rather than rebooting them. He was still
essentially the same guy beating another series of wild odds – yet again.
The impression with Dalton, Brosnan and Craig was that their Bond hadn’t yet
cheated fate so many a time. Much less of a need, then, for the filmmakers to
deliver self-parodic elements.
Less need, I stress, as by the time Brosnan reached his
fourth film, 2002’s Die Another Day, there was a noticeably stronger
sense of self-parody. Dalton, meanwhile, was only there for two films, but at
the conclusion of his second film, 1989’s Licence to Kill, a giant,
smiling fake fish was winking at the audience. And by Craig’s third film – the
richly textured and brooding Skyfall (2012) – a rather offbeat moment occurred when a bewildered
"ordinary" man delivered a deadpan appraisal of Bond’s leap for a
commuter train: "He's keen to get home." It’s interesting that the
Oscar-winning director of Skyfall, Sam Mendes, a man known for “big
themes”, treated a typical third phase
piece of humour as a valid part of the accumulated James Bond filmic identity.
Similarly, in the same film, when
Bond runs away from his soon-to-be incinerated ancestral home, only to turn
back to camera (almost engaging the camera, fourth wall-breaking style)
and state, "I always hated this place" we are back in "This
never happened to the other fella" territory. Ditto the moment where the
villain blows the Aston Martin to smithereens and Bond looks a picture of fury
in response. Why should Bond give a damn? Because, in this instance, he’s
responding on the audiences’ behalf – and they know when an iconic
structure has been defamed.
Of
course, the particular qualities that each subsequent Bond actor has brought to
the role haven’t “encouraged” the same level of frivolity that Moore did. But
nevertheless there is a strong suggestion that as each actor has progressed in
the role so has the perceived need for some self-reflexive humour. Let us see
if Craig's soon-to-be-released fourth film - Spectre - will build on the
third phase elements of Skyfall.
I'm not advocating for Bond’s recent
and past history to be demarcated by phases, but noting phases does assist a
nuanced understanding of the range of ways the James Bond character and his
world have been realised. The point is: there is often great variation,
regardless of the always-dutiful delivery of formulaic essentials. The film
series, in particular, has gone down a number of differing paths, often due to
a sense of cultural necessity, and each excursion can be proclaimed a worthy
one. In fact, fair to say, a range of "Bondian genres" have
been successfully created. Which of these you prefer is neither here nor there.
What matters is that a number of very solid genres now exist – and through each
of these, James Bond has continued to survive.
Correction: he continues to thrive.
1 Quoted in Lee Goldberg, ‘Roger Moore: His Name is Bond’, Starlog, no. 96, July 1985, p. 41-42.
Published 20 October 2015
