Review

GoldenEye

NADEEM A. KHAN

The Players:

James Bond: Pierce Brosnan

Natalya Simonova: Izabella Scorupco

Xenia Onatopp:Famke Jansenn

Jack Wade: Joe Don Baker

Agent 006: Sean Bean

"Q": Desmond Llewelyn

"M": Judi Dench

Directed by: Martin Campbell

Screenplay by: Jeffrey Caine, Bruce Feirstein

Running Time: 130 minutes. Rated PG-13.

The first few minutes of "GoldenEye" are spent in convincing us that Pierce Brosnan is in fact James Bond, 007, licensed to kill and all that. But, as the stalwart secret agent tries his hand at bungee jumping and then traverses an impossible distance to occupy the safety offered by a plummeting, pilot-less plane, the freshest of Bond thrillers has a different feel to it all. And it isn't a particularly "Bond feel". When I was a mere lad, Moore's and Connery's vehicles seemed to possess a special aura. Recently, I had a chance to view them again and I was saddened to note that, what I had perceived, in the formation years, in many of the 007 flicks, to be awesome and extraordinary, seemed through the advantage of maturity to be quite.....average. But despite their obvious aging, the previous Bonds, minus Dalton's, which of course jabbed the iron into the soul, had a readily identifiable ambiance. Ambiance is so important to a Bond movie and that is what "GoldenEye" is missing the most. What it lacks in the ambiance department has been compensated for through cinematographic and special effects wizardry, and most, on their secluded merit hold up. On the flip side, all that is good is good enough for two action/adventure presentations and it eventually becomes clear that Mr. Brosnan was made to work for every bit of the $1.5 mill.

"GoldenEye" files in on the heels of some big-name adventure releases. In a summer that threw the third installment of "Die Hard", among other things, in your face, the Bond presentation still created unusual anticipation. Slipping Pierce Brosnan in the lead dampened, in my estimates, the movie's promise. Mr. Brosnan is a fine actor and has contributed wonderfully to the television detective's image. We've heard him caviling long enough to understand that he would have been sipping his on-screen martinis sooner than he eventually did, had it not been for a particularly wicked clause in his "Remington Steele" contract. In playing Steele, Brosnan brought a pleasing sophistication to the role--some of the episodes were markedly better than a few of the period's box-office releases. However in stepping up to the father of all spy roles, Brosnan appears to have the aspect of an athlete suddenly unsure of his abilities. I guess it is only natural: The expectations were huge and the unprecedented publicity is bound to shake the coolest of nerves. Although, it must be said, he didn't have exceptionally big shoes to fill. Timothy Dalton's twin puffs play like a bad memory. And Mr. Moore before him had an embarrassingly flaccid lease on the role. In view of all that had preceded, Brosnan might have dried a few beads of perspiration on the brows of the producers. Finally, they must have nodded at each other, here is a man born to be Bond, James Bond. Yes, quite. Consider then, those half dozen years that Mr. Brosnan's face was plastered, week after week, as he donned tuxedos, spoke with an accent, and toodled off to exotic locales to put the natives in their place--Mr. Steele, it appeared, was pushing the envelope into Bond territory. Over exposure, then, has diminished Brosnan's effectiveness. Had an hitherto unheard of Pierce been hauled out of a London pub and tossed the Walther PPK to go put an end to the dirty, the world would have watched with a different kind of zeal.

Very early on, England's man on the job strikes us as being fearfully lissome--in nice contrast to Moore's torpidity--hurtling through space with the aid of a giant elastic cord, and then, even more sensationally, launching self into an unoccupied aircraft. The premise of the feats, while laudable, lays it a little thick--especially the second stunt where Bond's ingress into the plane is marred by juvenile special effects, thus inviting a few snickers. Myself--I chafed a bit. The mentally negligible, bless them, will be catching their breath by such time, and realizing that, director Martin Campbell spools in the opening credits.

It is difficult to ignore the goose pumps as Pierce struts across the screen in high heels and empties his quota of blanks. Verily, Bond junkies can be observed shedding a tear at the ceremonious changing of guard. Tina Turner's number, being a pinch on the pop side of things, never really hits home, while the imagery associated with the plunging Lenins and hammers and sickles will cause the odd Russian in the audience to contort an eyebrow or two. Shrewdly sensing that something is missing, Campbell bungs Mr. Bond in that familiar Aston Martin and permits him to indulge in coarse badinage with a nondescript female. The twisting car ride in a foreign atmosphere is about all of the Bond "feel" "GoldenEye" dispenses in the advanced stages. And right there, the supposedly tautest of all Bonds starts creaking under the strain.

Somewhere, amidst it all, if one bears with the nuisance of watching Pierce persuade himself he is 007, is a plot involving the pilferage--if that is the term that can be applied here--of GoldenEye, a satellite laser thingummy capable of rendering all things electronic and their users useless. Among GoldenEye's many virtues, is its gift for mangling international banking systems. (Since the mastermind behind the heist sources the solitary moment of surprise, I will not delve into the finer hues of the whole affair.) Our correspondent steps in left center and is hounded by a frigid-to-the-hilt "M", a woman, if you'll pardon the manner in which this sounds, into getting the bally thing back. All for the cause of England, Bond is tipped a brand new automobile, which he promptly drives to Monte Carlo to indulge in a bit of baccarat. Xenia Onatopp (Famke Janssen), sidles in and sends the right mating signals and Bond learns, fairly painfully, the hazards that lie in those thighs. Natalya Simonova (Izabella Scorupco), a mousy Russian computer scientist affiliated with the GoldenEye project until it was found missing, serves as the safety net and Bond keeps an eye skinned out for her affections, even resorting to playing a sensitive goof and, on a beach, spills his heart and says, "It's what keeps me alive." This, of course, is in response to a Natalya's puzzled query regarding Bond's aloofness.

I fell into the habit of observing Pierce closely to see how well he sticks to his character. Fleming's novel hero was rather different from what we've seen on the reels, but that aside, all I had to go by were Connery's and Moore's vestiges. It appears Brosnan has broken a few rules--the aforementioned scene on the beach, for instance. Even though Mr. Dalton graced two episodes with the air of a man struggling with a secret sorrow, Brosnan's glum dial makes one uncomfortable. While historically accurate, one doesn't go to the movies to see Bond slump his shoulders and reflect on the world and its ways.

The labradorish Joe Don Baker (Jack Wade) injects much needed comic relief but the writers snatch misery from the jaws of such relief and the next time we see James, he is strapped in a tank and, in an effort to outrun a suspect automobile, is flouting Russian traffic regulations with reckless abandon--all this to a silly musical score. I distinctly remember chafing again, and even looking at the luminescent hands on my watch--I found the vagaries of the story line, to be trying.

The extensive finale includes plenty by way of lavish chit-chat, fist-fights, hide and seek, and dangling and falling, and somewhere around the two hour mark, a slight throbbing about the temples informs you the debate has reached saturation point. The confrontation between good and bad gets tedious to the point you start wishing the evil bloke luck--just for out-talking the Queen's servant. If at this stage matters find you a bit wheezed out, pat yourself on the old back for being normal. When the credits do roll up, good cheer does the mind's rounds: it's like spending an hour in grid-lock when seconds from home and realizing you'd be going there after all.

Reviewed 11/23/1995