James Bond

For fans of the franchise who remain unconvinced by Daniel Craig’s time on her majesty’s secret service, the stories leaking from the production of the latest film Spectre are further evidence that the time has come to hand 007 a glass of scotch and a revolver. Craig’s Bond always had less of an air of an expense-account gentleman spy and more the demeanour of a spornosexual plumber. This is a Bond who’d sooner take photographs of his abs in the bathroom mirror than go bird-watching.

Stumbling after the surefooted remake of Casino Royale, there is no disguising the tedious drivel that was Quantum of Solace, nor that Skyfall borrowed heavily from the Home Alone franchise. Whether it was the underground train timed to crash when Bond appeared, or the wholescale technological ineptitude of MI6, the decision to explore Bond’s roots was the series equivalent of The Phantom Menace. When the indulgence of the writers and a misplaced urge to service the fans overtook the need for a polished work of cinema.

The malaise of the series has now become clear, with the recent Sony hacks revealing that the next instalment is riddled with script issues. The reintroduction of Blofeld is expected, but the leaks throw up concerns from producers that the final act is a mess, and Blofeld’s motive entirely unclear. We can expect the clunky introduction of another ‘serious’ love interest after Bond’s multi-part moping over Vesper Lynd. Gone is the frivolity and the deftness of touch from the original series. The gadgets have been replaced by product placement, with Bond more likely to swig a Heineken than carry an exploding pen. Even the return of an old nemesis raises concerns that Bond’s finest days are behind him, and that we are trapped on repeat, the copies neither as funny or action-packed as the excellent Kingsman, nor as gritty and compelling as the Bourne movies.