…from the latest Bond franchise flick is of marginal interest because Bond films are (a) wanks, (b) outliers, (c) cultural anomalies, (d) the cinematic equivalent of a northern Atlantic iceberg, seen from a passing ocean liner at 4:30 am, (e) utterly lacking in any kind of social echo or reflection factor, and therefore glorious and vital, (f) harmless, (g) the original jizz-whizz experience, (h) one of the last surviving expressions of the 20th Century Anglo Saxon rogue male aesthetic, and therefore a kind of odd window into that JFK– or Hugh Hefner-reflecting mentality or consciousness, (i) fun to keep around from a Smithsonian Museum cultural nostalgia viewpoint, (j) mainly about augmenting the financial portfolios of Barbara Broccoli and Michael Wilson, who, like Edward G. Robinson’s Johnny Rocco, always want “more”, (k) the movie equivalent of a vinyl 33 that keeps skipping and repeating the same song fragment, over and over and over, (l) would feel superficially rejuvenated if Daniel Craig were to be replaced by Donald Glover or, perversely, the Sean Connery-like Henry Cavill, which would be interpreted in SJW circles as a gesture of damn-the-torpedoes cultural defiance, (m) one of the leading antitheses of the age-old maxim that you can’t reap financial gain if you don’t take a risk.