James Bond has survived a great deal over half a century on the silver screen. He has outlasted his creator Ian Fleming, weathered the departure of Sean Connery (the first and, for many, the only true cinematic Bond), and emerged unscathed from ill-advised casting experiments and the end of the Cold War, which rather robbed fictional characters of his ilk of their primary purpose. He even survived the appointment of Daniel Craig, a choice that initially had diehard fans clutching their pearls. Given this track record, one might reasonably expect the longest-running film franchise in history to endure the particular trials presented by Skyfall—and endure it does, though not without showing some rather telling signs of strain.
That survival remains very much the operative word is established by the traditionally spectacular pre-credits sequence, which concludes in a manner that would spell the end for any ordinary protagonist. For this secret agent, however—one who is beginning to show his years—it merely provides an opportunity for an extended disappearance. Bond retreats into the shadows, only resurfacing after a terrorist bombing of MI6 headquarters in London. With his colleagues dead or wounded, and the intelligence service under threat, the presumed-dead 007 returns to active duty, submitting himself to a series of humiliating physical and psychological assessments before tracking the perpetrator to Shanghai. There he encounters Sévérine (Bérénice Marlohe), an exotic beauty connected to Silva (Javier Bardem), a former British agent turned cyber-terrorist with a personal vendetta against M (Judi Dench).
The fundamental challenge facing any new Bond film is the need to satisfy audience expectations regarding the preservation of the formula—spectacular action, exotic locations, beautiful women—whilst simultaneously offering something different. That the makers of Skyfall intended to emphasise the latter became clear the moment Sam Mendes was announced as director. A filmmaker whose specialism lies in gloomy dramas about the emptiness of modern bourgeois existence, Mendes appeared an odd fit for the franchise. It became apparent that Christopher Nolan's "dark" reinvention of Batman had served as the primary inspiration; the result is a Bond film that is far removed from escapist adventure and the embodiment of petty-bourgeois ideals. Mendes seems intent on "deconstructing" the character, presenting him as a frustrated middle-aged man grappling with vulnerabilities and childhood traumas he has never overcome. The theme of mortality is further emphasised by the prominence of M, played by a visibly exhausted Judi Dench, who here becomes the first M in franchise history to utter the word "fuck."
This deconstruction extends to the villain. Bardem's Silva is conceived as a curious amalgam of Heath Ledger's Joker, a camp auntie, and an Oedipal homicidal maniac. The film's climax, set in the Scottish Highlands at Bond's ancestral home, feels more appropriate to a minimalist anti-Western than to a modern action blockbuster.
Despite such iconoclastic tendencies, Skyfall remains largely entertaining and successful. This is thanks in no small part to Mendes's skilled use of locations, several genuinely impressive action sequences, direct and indirect homages to classic Bond films, and a strong cast. Marlohe stands out as one of the most memorable Bond girls in recent memory—a femme fatale in the truest sense. Roger Deakins's cinematography is frequently stunning, particularly in the Shanghai sequence bathed in neon light.
However, the critical panegyrics that elevated Skyfall to the status of greatest Bond film ever made do not withstand scrutiny. The picture is overlong, and due to shifts in location and tone, it occasionally feels as though one is watching two different films—a conventional Bond adventure and a self-consciously "serious" character study—crudely stitched together. The dialogue, to put it mildly, is unlikely to feature in any Bond anthology. The attempt to give Bond a traumatic backstory and a literal family home (complete with a caretaker played by Albert Finney) borders on the bathetic, undermining the very ambiguity that has allowed the character to endure for fifty years.
Viewed in the context of Daniel Craig's tenure, Skyfall represents a partial recovery from the nadir of Quantum of Solace (2008), that rushed, incoherent sequel which suffered from the Writers' Guild strike and misguided directorial choices. Yet it falls well short of the standard established by Casino Royale (2006), which successfully rebooted the franchise by stripping away decades of accumulated excess and returning Bond to something approaching Fleming's original conception. Where Casino Royale balanced realism with genuine emotional stakes, Skyfall substitutes brooding introspection for character development. The seeds of the franchise's subsequent decline—evident in the disappointing Spectre (2015), where Craig's evident weariness and the cheapening of Bond's relationship with his arch-nemesis Blofeld reached their nadir—were arguably sown here.
For all its pretensions towards seriousness, Skyfall ultimately demonstrates that James Bond still has a future, even if this particular iteration suggests a franchise increasingly uncertain of its identity. It is a film that wants to have its cake and eat it—to deconstruct the hero whilst celebrating him; to reject the formula whilst relying upon it. The result is a handsome, occasionally thrilling, but ultimately compromised picture: superior to the immediate predecessor, inferior to the franchise's best, and considerably less revolutionary than its admirers claimed.
RATING: 5/10 (++)
(Note: The text in the original Croatian version is available here.)
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