Post by sparklingblue on Nov 9, 2003 16:53:05 GMT -5
Auditioning the Next James Bond
www.nytimes.com/2003/11/09/movies/09MITC.html?ex=1068958800&en=61ceba057889274a&ei=5062&partner=GOOGLE
By ELVIS MITCHELL
Published: November 9, 2003
As 2003 rolls to an end, the phrase "Academy Award winner" will appear more frequently in movie ads, Tom Cruise will gaze winsomely from the cover of every magazine except Cook's Illustrated and Black Enterprise, and the annual, unofficial "Who will be the next James Bond?" sweepstakes will commence.
This runoff takes on more weight now. MGM has just finished releasing the complete set of Bond movies on DVD; Pierce Brosnan has stated that he's ready to move on after he completes the next Bond picture, the 21st (scheduled to begin shooting in 2005); and the proposed spin-off starring Halle Berry as Jinx, the secret agent from "Die Another Day," has been shut down.
Bond is due for another redefinition — though not as thorough an overhaul as the one in the late 1980's, when Timothy Dalton, possibly the best actor ever hired to play Bond, was given an anti-pleasure mandate. The character's previous hedonism seemed a little untoward during the days of stock plunges and the first glimmers in the media of AIDS. So Mr. Dalton was stripped of his charisma in his Bond films — he showed more flair as the villain in "The Rocketeer" than he was allowed as a mirthless, driven, monogamous Bond so reliable he could have been a designated driver. And a Bond with a blood alcohol level of less than 0.2 frankly seems like an impostor.
The latest actor rumored to be in line for 007 — James Bond 6.0 — is Hugh Jackman, whose burly, scrappy presence made Wolverine seem like a real-life character in the "X-Men" movies and, more important, convinced fans of the comic books that it was O.K. that the movie Wolverine wasn't short. Clive Owen, whose brooding élan would have made him a prime contender, seems out of the running — which is too bad, since his fluid sensitivity and slender-lipped magnetism supply their own intrigue. (He shouldn't be disappointed — the collection of "Hire" shorts he stars in for BMW are far more comprehensible than the last few Bonds anyway.)
Mr. Jackman's physical wit shows he can embody the virile chill that's a Bond prerequisite — tailors are probably already fitting him for the series of Visa check card commercials he'll be dragooned into, all the better to debase the Bond brand. (This is a good point to remember: it was United Artists, the closest thing the 1960's had to an art-house outfit, that originally released the Bond films; no one imagined the movies would grip the imagination of baby-boomer men and their dads.)
Roger Moore, an actor of glissandos smoother than fat-free yogurt, may have been the only Bond who never looked as if he'd missed a night's sleep — he seemed to be napping even during "Octopussy." I always thought the best choice to replace him was David Bowie, whose wily trimness was close to the Bond described in the novels. His benign, pearly speaking voice was often contrasted with an evil expanse of crooked teeth when he smiled, and he could easily play the predatory elegance. You could imagine Q keeping a safe distance as he demonstrated the latest weaponry. More recently, Sharon Stone was heard clearing her throat, though the sound didn't travel far enough to register — or else, it was politely ignored. Her appetite for nourishment beyond the spiritual might have made her an attractive selection for the role of Bond. (She would have given the character something entirely unfamiliar — a laugh.)
In the 80's, two-fisted, working-class American action heroes played by actors like Mel Gibson and Bruce Willis — who actually broke a sweat while saving the world or, at least, their own area codes — began supplanting James Bond and his high-end, secret accessories. The producers of the Bond films realized that the American inferiority complex was no longer an operative part of movie fiction, and it's said that an offer was going to be made to Mr. Gibson. The question was: would the resulting film be a James Bond movie or a Mel Gibson movie?
It was wisely decided that Mr. Gibson would have overwhelmed the franchise — note the absence of any nationwide casting search for "Lethal Weapon Jr." When the Bond movies seemed to qualify for the collectible antiques section of eBay, Mr. Brosnan finally got his shot. And he earned the role in the opening sequence of "Goldeneye." During a pivotal scene, he wires a device while a nearby building erupts in an explosion, and he flinches briefly — it's like an action man's shrug, the equivalent of callused eyelids — while continuing to make his bomb. It's a pop gesture that showed ownership of the part, something he had also aged into. He had been offered it earlier, but commitments to "Remington Steele," a show that made him seem like a piece of wax fruit, had forced him to turn it down. In walking away before he gets bored — or cross-eyed from trying to keep up with the plot turns, which crop up like additions on a really ugly house — he's showing savvy judgment.
But the possible inclusion of Mr. Jackman in the list of Bonds — Sean Connery, Mr. Moore, Mr. Dalton, Mr. Brosnan and, um, George Lazenby, sort of — is probably sending an extra chill through Ian Fleming's martini in that great Goldeneye of the beyond. Fleming, the creator of 007, was an elitist's elitist — the books are filled with the brittle, patronizing attitude of a man still under the illusion that the sun never set on the British empire. As he runs through his listings of ne plus ultra favorites, his dilettantish preferences in fabrics, liquors and tobaccos make those books seem like either a particularly snobbish episode of "Seinfeld" or the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog. His Old World manners and diction aside, Fleming could have been a racist out of an old Randy Newman song. (It was always amusing to note that John F. Kennedy was a Bond enthusiast — was it the easy sex or the hand-made shirts?)
What would the priggish Fleming think of the rough-trade islanders — the Scottish Mr. Connery, the Irish Mr. Brosnan, the Welsh Mr. Dalton and, Queen help us, the Australian Mr. Jackman and Mr. Lazenby. He wouldn't have bothered to look up if one of them served him a drink, unless the Scotch reeked of a blend. He wouldn't have thought them qualified to use Suave shampoo, let alone to be called suave. (Mercifully, Fleming eventually exhibited the glimmerings of a soul, or, at least, his greed softened his isolationism. Later in the books, in tribute to Mr. Connery's contribution to the Bond franchise, the author gave Bond a Scottish pedigree.)
As apt a choice as Mr. Jackman would make, perhaps just as qualified — and the right 21st-century alternative — would be Chow Yun Fat, whose somber, bone-deep urbanity might also give Bond the very characteristic he could use as much as a laugh: a heart.
www.nytimes.com/2003/11/09/movies/09MITC.html?ex=1068958800&en=61ceba057889274a&ei=5062&partner=GOOGLE
By ELVIS MITCHELL
Published: November 9, 2003
As 2003 rolls to an end, the phrase "Academy Award winner" will appear more frequently in movie ads, Tom Cruise will gaze winsomely from the cover of every magazine except Cook's Illustrated and Black Enterprise, and the annual, unofficial "Who will be the next James Bond?" sweepstakes will commence.
This runoff takes on more weight now. MGM has just finished releasing the complete set of Bond movies on DVD; Pierce Brosnan has stated that he's ready to move on after he completes the next Bond picture, the 21st (scheduled to begin shooting in 2005); and the proposed spin-off starring Halle Berry as Jinx, the secret agent from "Die Another Day," has been shut down.
Bond is due for another redefinition — though not as thorough an overhaul as the one in the late 1980's, when Timothy Dalton, possibly the best actor ever hired to play Bond, was given an anti-pleasure mandate. The character's previous hedonism seemed a little untoward during the days of stock plunges and the first glimmers in the media of AIDS. So Mr. Dalton was stripped of his charisma in his Bond films — he showed more flair as the villain in "The Rocketeer" than he was allowed as a mirthless, driven, monogamous Bond so reliable he could have been a designated driver. And a Bond with a blood alcohol level of less than 0.2 frankly seems like an impostor.
The latest actor rumored to be in line for 007 — James Bond 6.0 — is Hugh Jackman, whose burly, scrappy presence made Wolverine seem like a real-life character in the "X-Men" movies and, more important, convinced fans of the comic books that it was O.K. that the movie Wolverine wasn't short. Clive Owen, whose brooding élan would have made him a prime contender, seems out of the running — which is too bad, since his fluid sensitivity and slender-lipped magnetism supply their own intrigue. (He shouldn't be disappointed — the collection of "Hire" shorts he stars in for BMW are far more comprehensible than the last few Bonds anyway.)
Mr. Jackman's physical wit shows he can embody the virile chill that's a Bond prerequisite — tailors are probably already fitting him for the series of Visa check card commercials he'll be dragooned into, all the better to debase the Bond brand. (This is a good point to remember: it was United Artists, the closest thing the 1960's had to an art-house outfit, that originally released the Bond films; no one imagined the movies would grip the imagination of baby-boomer men and their dads.)
Roger Moore, an actor of glissandos smoother than fat-free yogurt, may have been the only Bond who never looked as if he'd missed a night's sleep — he seemed to be napping even during "Octopussy." I always thought the best choice to replace him was David Bowie, whose wily trimness was close to the Bond described in the novels. His benign, pearly speaking voice was often contrasted with an evil expanse of crooked teeth when he smiled, and he could easily play the predatory elegance. You could imagine Q keeping a safe distance as he demonstrated the latest weaponry. More recently, Sharon Stone was heard clearing her throat, though the sound didn't travel far enough to register — or else, it was politely ignored. Her appetite for nourishment beyond the spiritual might have made her an attractive selection for the role of Bond. (She would have given the character something entirely unfamiliar — a laugh.)
In the 80's, two-fisted, working-class American action heroes played by actors like Mel Gibson and Bruce Willis — who actually broke a sweat while saving the world or, at least, their own area codes — began supplanting James Bond and his high-end, secret accessories. The producers of the Bond films realized that the American inferiority complex was no longer an operative part of movie fiction, and it's said that an offer was going to be made to Mr. Gibson. The question was: would the resulting film be a James Bond movie or a Mel Gibson movie?
It was wisely decided that Mr. Gibson would have overwhelmed the franchise — note the absence of any nationwide casting search for "Lethal Weapon Jr." When the Bond movies seemed to qualify for the collectible antiques section of eBay, Mr. Brosnan finally got his shot. And he earned the role in the opening sequence of "Goldeneye." During a pivotal scene, he wires a device while a nearby building erupts in an explosion, and he flinches briefly — it's like an action man's shrug, the equivalent of callused eyelids — while continuing to make his bomb. It's a pop gesture that showed ownership of the part, something he had also aged into. He had been offered it earlier, but commitments to "Remington Steele," a show that made him seem like a piece of wax fruit, had forced him to turn it down. In walking away before he gets bored — or cross-eyed from trying to keep up with the plot turns, which crop up like additions on a really ugly house — he's showing savvy judgment.
But the possible inclusion of Mr. Jackman in the list of Bonds — Sean Connery, Mr. Moore, Mr. Dalton, Mr. Brosnan and, um, George Lazenby, sort of — is probably sending an extra chill through Ian Fleming's martini in that great Goldeneye of the beyond. Fleming, the creator of 007, was an elitist's elitist — the books are filled with the brittle, patronizing attitude of a man still under the illusion that the sun never set on the British empire. As he runs through his listings of ne plus ultra favorites, his dilettantish preferences in fabrics, liquors and tobaccos make those books seem like either a particularly snobbish episode of "Seinfeld" or the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog. His Old World manners and diction aside, Fleming could have been a racist out of an old Randy Newman song. (It was always amusing to note that John F. Kennedy was a Bond enthusiast — was it the easy sex or the hand-made shirts?)
What would the priggish Fleming think of the rough-trade islanders — the Scottish Mr. Connery, the Irish Mr. Brosnan, the Welsh Mr. Dalton and, Queen help us, the Australian Mr. Jackman and Mr. Lazenby. He wouldn't have bothered to look up if one of them served him a drink, unless the Scotch reeked of a blend. He wouldn't have thought them qualified to use Suave shampoo, let alone to be called suave. (Mercifully, Fleming eventually exhibited the glimmerings of a soul, or, at least, his greed softened his isolationism. Later in the books, in tribute to Mr. Connery's contribution to the Bond franchise, the author gave Bond a Scottish pedigree.)
As apt a choice as Mr. Jackman would make, perhaps just as qualified — and the right 21st-century alternative — would be Chow Yun Fat, whose somber, bone-deep urbanity might also give Bond the very characteristic he could use as much as a laugh: a heart.
