FILM: A Quantum of Something

The new Bond movie is to be applauded for attempting something different, even if it’s not quite clear what kind of different that is. Are the busy close-ups and stylised location pointers supposed to indicate independent style? (Spaghetti Bond?) Or is the revenge plot more indicative of an off-the-grid, Licence To Kill style rampage? The issue with Licence To Kill was that it felt just like any other action thriller from 1989; only the theme tune marked it out. Quantum Of Solace is at least stylistically different, and coherent, not anonymous; plus, Bond is never disavowed in quite the same way as he is in Kill.

Another boon for Quantum is the lack of intrusive branding; it lacked those vile and customised adverts that plagued Casino Royale, and even jumped into the script (“Is that a Rolex?” “No, Omega.”), and although various things pop up (Virgin, Gordon’s gin), it feels reasonably natural. It doesn’t take you out of the story, which is the key – Bond doesn’t whip out his chunky laptop to resign on a boat in Venice, for instance (why oh why oh why). Materialism was always part of the Fleming novels, as it provides a signpost to quality of life and a substitute for emotional content, an idea festishised in fare such as American Psycho.

Lack of gadgets? Well, yes (except the CNN-style Magic Wall). But Quantum is a book-end, a way of rounding out the character ahead of a new thrust forward. Daniel Craig is keen to bring back all the letters and oompah-loompah that previously accompanied the agent, so take this and Casino Royale as an On Her Majesty’s Secret Service – which is still one of the most rounded Bonds, if not the most enjoyable.

Roll on Bond 23.

Also see: BOOK COMPARISON

FILM: The Movies, brought to you by…

First: apologies for our recent absence, due to a necessary two-week break from the country. The team are now rested and refreshed, so on with the show.

And so, second: At the risk of stating the obvious, consumerism in the movies is a much lamented trend – particularly, and with partial justification, in the new Sex And The City
movie. Here, though, it is justified: the film’s parade of wedding dresses accompanied by their designer names is seen by some as the nadir of consumer culture invading entertainment, but the truth is that this is what the show has always been about, and is partly why people watch. Like American Psycho, Candace Bushnell’s novel and, to a greater extent, the ensuing TV series and movie fetishise the clothing which the on-screen girls appreciate and to which the audience aspire.

While watching in a packed auditorium, pregnant with much of the sense of event instilled by the recent Indiana Jones screening, News Hour was bedazzled to hear the audio equivalent of a Mexican wave sweep the cinema when a Louis Vuitton box was held centre shot. That the bag inside was vile – it looked like something an eight year old would bury in the garden – was beside the point. Many of the girls’ outfits were hideous (Samantha’s tiger trousers and Carrie’s kneesocks spring to mind) but this was what the people wanted so, let them eat. What they didn’t want was the more than half an hour of commercials that preceded the film, a shameless parade that beat even the commercial packaging of Casino Royale. Context should be king.

Whether Sex And The City is a good women’s movie is another question, and one better handled elsewhere. All likelihood, it depends on the woman; how seriously she takes it and her own particular brand of feminism. For his own taste, your correspondent found it altogether too neat and half an hour too long, but a very enjoyable aside.

Intriguingly, while recently in New York at a bewildering showing of You Don’t Mess With The Zohan – Adam Sandler’s lewd, broad, wildly unbalanced pro-Israel culture clash comedy – your correspondent was intrigued to note that no commercials preceded the showing of the film, only trailers. These are commercials too, but lots of people want to see them; no-one wants to see the adverts. News Hour would be most intrigued to hear from any Americans, Canadians or frequent visitors that could tell us whether or not this is common practice in North American moviehouses. Personally, we long for the times when your local cinema would carry local adverts, for ‘Singh’s Curry Emporium’ and the ‘Gladstay Happy Hotel’. Halcyon days.