A Maverick for All Seasons

Review: Quantum of Solace

Roger Ebert isn't fond of Quantum of Solace. James Bond shouldn't be an action hero, he says. And true, James Bond in 2008 is practically the brother of Jason Bourne. With the initials, you'd think James Bond was aping him, if there weren't 40 years of Bond celluloid on record.

But Bond movies have always blown up tankers and warehouses and submarines. Car chases stretch back to Dr. No. Blood, sweat, and tears didn't pour out of Sean Connery or Roger Moore, but ever since the eighties, hyper-violence has been in vogue. The difference with Quantum, like the Bourne sequels, is that the camera gets progressively shakier. I couldn't figure out who got shot or drove off a cliff in the first scene, though I was pretty sure Bond would survive. He has since 1963.

Unlike the Brosnans, the Craigs intend to be films instead of popcorn flicks, with angst and relevance and chiaroscuro. Daniel Craig is a lethal killer, with piercing blue eyes and humor drier than his martinis (which, in keeping with tradition, are still shaken). He's still the protagonist, but now the film questions, is he a good guy? As his personal body count grows, it becomes harder to explain it all away with a lover's betrayal and demise. Malice motivates him more than anything; instead of charming quips, he prefers to whip out his gun. That's not an entendre; Quantum offers the most single-minded, least sexual Bond of the series. M at once respects and distrusts him, though she never fears him. Judi Dench is too formidable to ignore, and her performance trumps that of the Bond girls.

The girls, really, are what has changed the most. Pussy Galore from Goldfinger relished the sound of her name, as did James. The newest ingenue is named Strawberry Fields, but her first name can only be found in the credits. In a tempestuous political climate, entertainment can't help but offer social commentary and avoid empty glamour. Quantum goes for substance over style, and if it's not as impressive as Casino Royale, it's not so radically different from the last 20 years of Bond. The vistas are lush, the plotting is sleek, the pace is relentless. It's not afraid of self-plagiarism, as in a Goldfinger-inspired death, or of borrowing the main political thrust of the film from Chinatown.

Craig, Dench, and Mathieu Amalric (a departure from the cultured villain of the Connery era) create characters of flesh and desperation who convince, ultimately, that Bond cannot be a mere retread. But Quantum isn't a reinvention, either. It culls from the past and refuses to be an island, as all events expand upon the ending of Casino Royale. Hopefully next time, though, Bond won't have his license revoked again. Sometimes it's best, as Quantum often does, to stir the martini around.