Casino Royale

CASINO ROYALE is the first James Bond film I’ve liked since Timothy Dalton left the franchise. But something about it bothered the hell out of me.

Don’t get me wrong: Pierce Brosnan was a fine Bond, keeping the character just this side of self-parody while clearly having fun with the role. Problem is, he was a fine Bond in terrible movies. Denise Richards as a nuclear physicist? Invisible cars? “He’s the best there is”? Give me a break – he’s one of nine. Sure, I saw every one of his movies, but I walked out disappointed every time. It got to the point where, as with Star Wars, I was ready to leave the franchise behind. Daniel Craig, on the other hand, got lucky with his first film in the role. CASINO ROYAL’s stunts looked practical, its villains seemed plausible, and its story seemed reasonable. This gave the film a sense of urgency that the others lacked, and it helped to keep me entertained throughout its running time.

But here’s the thing that bothered me: I finally realized that the Bond franchise is basically wealth porn. It dangles before us, bright and shiny, a world of fabulously wealthy people living fabulous lives in fabulous locations. Even its working stiffs, its spies and accountants, get to live fabulously on their governments’ tabs (he writes, looking around his serviceable but decidedly non-fabulous government-funded hotel room). It equates wealth with conspicuous consumption, two things that have proven, time and again, to be fundamentally incompatible, and it does so while burying us in advertising for watches, cars, beverages, hotels, and nearly every other consumable a profligate spender might reasonably purchase. I have a problem with wealth porn, because it encourages the kind of irresponsible behavior that leads to people purchasing vehicles whose value outweighs that of their retirement plans, all for a taste of what they perceive to be “the good life.” Why did this particular installment trigger that connection? I suspect that it was the sight of James Bond driving to a posh location alone in a Ford, then driving away in a fabulous sports car, beautiful woman at his side, because he had basically won the lottery. My first reaction? “Frack! I need to win the lottery!” (Legal Disclaimer: So I can put the beautiful woman to whom I’m married in a fabulous sports car. Let’s make that perfectly clear.) My second reaction? “What am I thinking? I need to make another contribution to my Roth IRA!”

So while I enjoyed the movie, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was selling me an attractive lie. It’s the blemish on an otherwise entirely enjoyable film. I wouldn’t let a little wealth porn turn you away.

District B13

If martial arts movies are basically dance movies with fake blood, DISTRICT B13 (the Americanized title of BANLIEU 13, a French martial arts picture) B13 is the kind of dance movie in which the editing gets in the way of the dancing.

The plot - well, nevermind. Who remembers the plot to SWING TIME? The fighting and acrobatics deliver plenty of thrills and not a few "rewind" moments, but the film's frenetic editing so detracts from the beauty and awesomness of the choreography and its execution that, by the climax, I wanted to put a brick through someone's AVID computer.

Nevertheless, B13 delivers on its audience's expectations. It offers enough of people kicking other people in the face, and doing so in new and creative ways, that it's sure to please action and martial arts fans. Just don't expect to know whether you're watching the result of athleticism and precision or clever editing.