00 MOORE

LIVE AND LET DIE (1973)

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Eon Productions

In setting-up the preposition for a new 007, Live and Let Die opens with a series of intriguing tableaux prior its phenomenal title sequence. Still with a remaining flush of youth, Roger Moore makes his debut not in the office but in flagrante with a fellow secret agent. Roles are further reversed, with his superior M not waiting for but calling upon him. Thus, we are afforded a tantalising glimpse into James’ private apartment.

Oozing charm, Moore quickly establishes himself as something of an everyman – the screen on which others project. As a geeky, skinny child, even I could dream of escaping every dastardly scheme armed not only with Q’s magnetic watch but also with my wits. Throughout this well-paced adventure, Moore glides through each twist and turn of the plot as if he’s been doing it for years. Which, previously, as The Saint, he had.

The cinematic series takes on a life of its own, separate from the books. Extraordinary, to consider that I’ve never read one of Fleming’s novels although I am fascinated by his life and work. Live and Let Die is packed with iconic moments (at least for aficionados) such as the upper deck of a bus sawn-off by a low bridge. Or 007 stepping-stoning across alligators to escape yet another ingenious but unsuccessful death-sentence.

Meanwhile, the stereotypically ‘American’ sheriff (alas not the only stereotype) JW Pepper who appeared hilarious in my youth seems at best a slight strain and at worst over-played. These days, I’d rather his overly drawn-out scenes were severely edited. What was once – as with so much else – ‘amusing’ in the 1970s now intrudes on what could be a more intensely stylish thriller. What remains is its oddly soothing familiarity... A story played over and over, with which to escape when we can.

THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN (1974)

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Eon Productions

One of my favourites although one of the least popular, apparently. And Heaven knows why. With Christopher Lee as the villain, Hervé Villechaize as his sidekick, the sultry Maud Adams, and the ballsy Britt Ekland, who could ask for ‘Moore’? Granted, there’s not much of a story to go on. Other than the tables being turned: 007 is not the assassin but the target. Who needs a plot when you can immerse yourself in the glamour and accoutrements of espionage?

One of the highlights, for me, is the temporal Headquarters housed in the lopsided wreck of the Queen Elizabeth. It’s all so terribly British. No detail missed, its furniture slotted into diagonal walls and its occupants acting as if nothing’s amiss. The film is all angles, disguise, smoke-and-mirrors, circusry. A crossover between reality and artifice seem much like Moore’s constant reliance on The Charm Offensive. Situations and outcomes are layered as first one thing and then as another. A too-subtle mismatch against the vulgarity of the genre? A vulgarity syphoned, repeatedly, via the charisma of Sir Roger. The masquerade somewhat predictably, though satisfyingly, leads back to where it started. With (like the mindlessly absent Martini) one of many deliciously sharp twists.

THE SPY WHO LOVED ME (1977)

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Eon Productions

The Spy Who Loved Me benefits in no small measure from the sultry, slinky presence of Barbara Bach who was born to play 007’s Russian counterpart. Moore is on top form and as such it’s almost difficult to perceive anyone else playing Bond. The film kicks off with a magnificent ski chase alongside the superb Bond 77 theme performed by Marvin Hamlisch. It culminates in a deathly and prolonged silence, until a Union Jack parachute opens and descends into the silhouetted hands of Maurice Binder’s title sequence – draw a breath! – accompanied by Carly Simon’s classic rendition of Nobody Does It Better. Worth the price of admission alone.

One of the best super-villains ever is the stoically insane Karl Stromberg, as admirably portrayed, with an inner glow of delight, by Curt Jürgens. His undercurrent seething evil is perfectly placed in his eye-bogglingly stupendous underwater lair. The producers shared a subversive (submerged?) thrill in parodying the cinema hits of the era. Thus, not only do man-eating sharks abound but the most memorable and dominant henchman is none too blatantly monikered Jaws. Enter Richard Kiel, replete with steel-daggered teeth, standing at a modest 7’ 2”. A rambling narrative careens along, above and below sea level, across desert plains, and ‘delving into the treasures’ of a beautifully photographed Cairo. Peppered with flashes of drama and essential touches of violence. Throughout which, Bach retains her cool and Moore his effortless suavity.

What makes Moore’s Bond are all that should work against him (slightly too old, slightly too comfy in his own skin, slightly too nonchalant). Despite his looks, he is the conduit through which the viewer can live-out their fantasy. The Spy Who Loved Me marks a period when the alpha-male begins, out of necessity, to send itself up. The wincing moments of sexism seem incredibly old hat but are overplayed by gracious nods to female empowerment. Bach is presented as Bond’s equal, often his better, sniping not with bullets but with as many quips as his. She shares nearly as much screen time, plays him at his own game, and exposes his ingrained sexism redundant.

The film hits the spots that later entries miss. Never mind exploding pens. Who doesn’t want a car that drives into the ocean and transmogrifies into a submersible? Who doesn’t want to sneak behind the ramparts, lifted on giant spider-legs out of the waves? OK, this is not the greatest movie ever made nor by (citing self-deprecating admission) the greatest actors. But it is surely the greatest fun. Pure escapism, as essential as ever. What is ‘great’ for this writer is its capacity to be watched enjoyably again and again. An increasing delight ensues from every familiar scene or snippet of dialogue. That is, ultimately, some measure of greatness despite of or because of its genre.

MOONRAKER (1979)

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Eon Productions

Moonraker is somewhat misaligned by fans. Especially serious fans of which I am not. James Bond in space. Bring it on. Pour that Martini. Granted, it is not in the same league as its predecessor. A bit of a rehash, in fact, guaranteed to fall flat. Yet another psychopath attempting to restart the world, less in his image but with an Aryan race...

Then again, how to follow The Spy Who Loved Me? Who can blame the producers for blasting 007 into the heavens? In parody, though, it swings all over the place. Its main swerve, unsettlingly, between Death In Venice and Star Wars. Its best aspect is Shirley Bassey’s third and, sadly, final theme song written by John Barry and Hal David. Exquisite in a quite different manner from her earlier, brassier efforts.

Apart from being stunningly photographed and expertly directed (by Lewis Gilbert) there’s little more to write of. To write off? To switch off to? Unless you desire, like me, mindless escape. But, alas, it can only merit two stars in comparison with its betters. Moore’s the pity, as Roger is as terrific as always whilst Lois Chiles, if never quite on fire, is feisty and intelligent. However, Drax (the villain, if you can’t guess) cannot touch the menace of Stromberg. There is scant chemistry in opposition for Bond to play off against.

A diversion to Rio does something to up its gain. The carnival sours to a grim masque, alongside Jaws’ re-emergence from under a grotesque clown outfit. Circusry is recurrent in these films, to lend a note of potency. What serves well are generous dollops of wry humour and unabashed glee. Unfortunately, though, a two-hour epic it ain’t. And, mid-way, it certainly sags. A shoot-me-up in space is unconvincing. The imagination can only stretch so far. A nail-biter ending works well but comes not a moment too soon. Over the moon? Just, over.

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY (1981)

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Eon Productions

For Your Eyes Only is marginally akin to the reboot of Casino Royale which in turn followed the critical disaster of Die Another Day. To a greater degree, it works very well. I’d joyfully award it four stars in James Bond Land if anything within that mythical realm was truly great filmmaking. Great entertainment? Definitely.

Despite its comic-book opening, the film gets serious from the start. With the sinking of a spy ship, its premise is soon established. We’re not expecting a power-crazed psychopath missioning a drowned piece of tech. It’s matched by a parallel plotline concerning a daughter avenging her parents’ murder. Carole Bouquet is an erudite and sophisticated ‘Bond Girl’ never reliant on beauty alone. She is one of an ensemble of excellent actors, each lending a sought-after clout to proceedings.

Moore’s trademark humour persists but is newly placed as a natural coping mechanism in peril. No more spaceships. Feet on dusty ground, propelled by force of will. Nevertheless, the too-often-tiresome sidekick reappears: manifest as professional figure-skater-turned-actor Lynn-Holly Johnson. But, unlike other stooges, she is able to add a touch of depth to her role.

The set action pieces are genuinely thrilling, if ever these were wholly convincing – with Moore settling comfortably and attractively into middle-age. However, the narrative keeps strong. As much as James relies on his wits, Roger relies on his mystique. It comes into its own opposite Topol who offers a solid performance as a characterful Greek smuggler.

The film cumulates in a series of ‘cliff-hangers’ at a mountaintop monastery. And why not. Sheer implausibility is bypassed via its stark contrast to Moonraker. It is a balance carefully and pleasingly maintained. For Your Eyes Only satisfies to The End. Rounded off with a typically schoolboyish guffaw but much deserved.

OCTOPUSSY (1983)

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Eon Productions

Critics miss the point that a Roger Moore ‘Bond’ is great fun. And a damn good adventure. Moore precisely recognises the difference between entertainment and art, and it is this which endures. He was so well-established as Bond that in The Cannonball Run his screen persona self-identifies as his alter-ego. Appearing fresher and trimmer than previously, and a tad more convincing on returning to active duty, this goes part way to holding the ridiculousness together. Bracketed as it is with the rusty one-liners, the very measure of self-depreciation lacking from the steel-girdered critics.

The clown makes its macabre entrance, its visual effect as stunning as the film’s overall visuality. Steven Berkoff is stupendous, hamming it up as a crackpot Russian general. Another contrast with For Your Eyes Only but as if it’s never been done before. Louis Jordan is Berkoff’s perfect counterfoil, as icy as 007’s Martini. The viewer like the protagonist is lured to lavish settings in India and to the floating palace of Octopussy herself: leader of an all-female cult. Only in Bond! This time around, as in The Spy Who Loved Me, the fantasies are played out coolly enough to seem ‘real’. The recasting of Maud Adams (mistress of The Man With the Golden Gun) is a gamble paying dividends. Obvious, why Mr Moore admitted she was his favourite.

The slapstick returns with a few cringey moments, attracting said criticism. Following criticism, what else, of a lack of humour in its predecessor. You can’t win. But Moore doesn’t care. He can relate a joke with an eyebrow. It is, in fact, a rare blessing of subtlety which couples with an intuitive ability to mime. The action takes darker turns, not least under the gauche façade of the circus. Potent, when Moore, jester of the series, dons the clown suit himself, it’s not played for laughs. The ending is barnstorming joy. A double whammy, returning to the aeronautical gymnastics of the spectacular opening. All boxes ticked. But who am I to say.

A VIEW TO A KILL (1985)

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Eon Productions

In only a couple of years, Moore seems to calmly ‘return’ to middle age. Affording a disconcerting aura of comfy-old-armchair rather than live-on-the-edge secret agent. For me, though, it seems part of the appeal. Moore himself admitted “I was only about four hundred years too old for the part.” Then again, what’s wrong with an older Bond? As much as we enjoy Helen Mirren in Red for example.

Predictably slated and a pity because in itself it’s rather a good film. A greater pity that Moore couldn’t have made the same when ten years younger. A Bond fan cannot refute affection for the final exchange of repartee between 007 and Lois Maxwell as Moneypenny. Meanwhile, Moore and Patrick Macnee, faint touches of Laurel and Hardy, make quite the double act. Christopher Walken is perfectly cast as the villain. Yet another deranged psychopath, granted, but as expertly played as Berkoff before him. Grace Jones as his love interest affords her mesmeric presence.

For a while, nothing much happens. A slow build of intrigue has no comparison in the series. Its consequence allows Moore wider scope in which to tread those well-worn shoes. His relentless likeability seems a fitting contrast to the unmitigated evil of Zorin (Walken) and May Day (Jones). A View to a Kill is generally slower-paced and a slow-burner. The in-your-face slapstick is noticeably lessened. Its lighter relief in opposition enhances the serious side to Roger’s most famous role.

Tanya Roberts, the nicest of ‘Bond Girls’, adheres brains and beauty as unconvincingly as a 57-year-old spy. Which is what the Eastern-Bloc ‘Dynasty’ styled Fiona Fullerton might say. As if any of this is based in reality. The finale is a superb fight sequence on top of the Golden Gate Bridge no less. A highly memorable Bond moment indeed. On balance, Roger could have trusted his own judgement and called it. As a close to his tenure, it does offer something different.