'Spectre:' Bond movie needs license to edit

T

HE ECONOMIST

magazine conducted research recently on James Bond films, with shocking results.

Turns out Pierce Brosnan's Bond, widely regarded by purists as the dandy of 007s - the pretty one - killed more people and bedded more women per movie than any rival James.

More than craggy Daniel Craig, who surpasses Brosnan in just one key category - downing martinis. I guess finishing second to Brosnan at the gun range and in the sack will drive a double-0 to drink.

Which raises a question: When he's not performing the essential functions of boinking and killing, exactly what is franchisee Craig doing during his interminably long movies?

"Spectre" is the first Bond film to push past the two-and-a-half hour mark, indicating that someone on the production team has lost his license to edit.

So, there's plenty of time for Craig to do what he does best, or at least most often - model cars and suits and watches for the studio's high-end corporate clients.

The Craig bond has devolved into a posh ceremonial functionary. Perhaps this is why the royal family turned up for the London premiere of 'Spectre." It was a chance to see one of their own in action.

That connection seemed to take literal shape during the closing revelations of "Skyfall," with Bond returning to the ruin of his childhood home, which looked like Downton Abbey after a bombing run.

"Spectre" continues this investigation into Bond's personal history, a long and ponderous and ultimately silly narrative thread that has Bond going to Mexico City, Rome, Austria and Tangiers to learn the history behind a mysterious gold ring, one that may explain his own origins - and perhaps the mortality rate of women he likes.

After a couple of hours of this, a bad guy dies in an enormous explosion and we turn for the exits but are stopped by Craig, who says: "It's not over."

Darn it. The movie continues with its stubborn drive down memory lane (in a new Aston Martin). This includes several restaged sequences from Bond movies past, so we're seeing things done before, and usually better. Certainly the original versions were shorter.

Adding to the long-windedness of "Spectre" is the presence of Christoph Waltz, the film's looming criminal mastermind, and the epitome of the Bond villain with chronic loghorrea, which is to say, he won't shut up.

Waltz becomes unctuous and flimsy and tiny when left on screen too long, as happens here. His performance will inspire regret among those in the motion picture academy who've awarded him two acting Oscars.

I don't want to tell Sam Mendes how to do his job, but in the future, more Monica Bellucci and Lea Seydoux, less Waltz.

And much, much, much less exposition. The more we learn of Bond, the less mysterious and the less interesting he becomes.

Craig says he's tired of playing Bond, and it shows. He looks constipated. Maybe they should have called it "Sphincter."

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