“Things have been so moribund for so long in the [James] Bond business that it was always going to take some major defibrillation to jerk it back to life,” comments New Yorker critic Anthony Lane in the latest issue. “Die Another Day, the last film, was a gruelling nadir, although the producers would be right to point out that it earned $450 million dollars. This means that the sight of Pierce Brosnan driving an invisible car, though bound to dismay every Bond-revering adult, was catnip to the larger constituency of teenage boys, who were comfortable with a film that felt like a video game.
“What they will make of Casino Royale — no babes, no toyland, and the poker not even online — is anyone√ɬ¢√¢‚Äö¬¨√¢‚Äû¬¢s guess, but the earnings of the new film will doubtless affect the look, and the casting, of the next. If Craig falters, then I guess it√ɬ¢√¢‚Äö¬¨√¢‚Äû¬¢s full speed ahead to Chris Rock as 007 and Borat as Blofeld. That would be a shame, because Casino Royale, though half an hour too long, is the first semi-serious stab at Ian Fleming, and at the treacherous terrain that he marked out, since On Her Majesty√ɬ¢√¢‚Äö¬¨√¢‚Äû¬¢s Secret Service, in 1969.”
Hollywood Elsewhere, which has officially been put on Columbia’s arms-length shitlist (i..e, graciously invited to see Columbia product but only at all-media screenings, which usually happen a week or less from opening day), will finally see Casino Royale tomorrow night. Until then…