An Apology to 007

I’ve never had any patience for James Bond. The whole mythology—charming British spy, endless gadgets, girls in bikinis—felt designed for people with simpler appetites. I ignored the hype, ignored the casting controversy, walked into Casino Royale with the lowest possible expectations.

Daniel Craig turns out to be very good in a way I wasn’t prepared for—less suave, more dangerous, a Bond who looks like he actually hurts people instead of just threatening to. The story moves fast and stays lean. The two Bond girls are both genuinely attractive and, yes, extremely well-endowed, and I’m not going to pretend that’s irrelevant—it’s a Bond film, it’s part of the contract. Eight euros and I got everything the genre promises plus a performance I didn’t see coming. That’s a bargain.

One genuine grievance: they destroy the Aston Martin DBS. Just wreck this beautiful, perfect car, and you’re supposed to sit there and accept it. Almost harder to watch than anything that happens to the actual characters. Nearly as upsetting as the Bond girls were pleasing, but not quite. See it even if you’ve spent your whole life dismissing the franchise. I had.