Quantum of Solace (Retrospective)

Quantum of Solace (2008)

Quantum of Solace is a peculiar beast. After twenty-one films, this is the first Bond movie to function as a direct sequel to the one preceding it (Casino Royale). Because of this, it also functions as the first Bond film to have to contend with continuity. Whereas the first twenty films played fast and loose with such progression, the Craig era has made a point of establishing a strict continuity to which the newer films adhere. Picking up just moments after Casino Royale leaves off, Quantum of Solace opens with a beautiful establishing shot over crystalline waters before slamming into high gear in a gut-wrenching car chase through the picturesque Italian hill country. While Casino Royale was a careful film, measured in pace and plotting, Quantum races along at a breakneck rate, barely giving you time to breathe between major action set pieces. Upon release, this was one of the features of the film that critics lamented the most, suggesting that Bond was trying too hard to be like Bourne, with choppy editing and furious action sequences.

Having viewed Quantum of Solace more than a handful of times since its release, I have come to the conclusion that this is one of the more underrated Bond films. As is usually the case, time and distance offers newer, fresher perspectives. And I, for one, believe that it is high time for Quantum of Solace to undergo a serious reevaluation. In order to do this, however, I have to break a personal rule of movie-watching. In this age of continuity obsessed "cinematic universes," or whatever we're calling them now, I have grown more and more affectionate toward an idea that has only become somewhat radical in the past decade or so: that continuity and movie "canon" is, for the most part, trivial. I think that obsessing over these things can restrict a creative endeavor. So I have resolved to stop thinking about most movies or television shows in terms of their respective "canons," and instead elected to only deal with them in their own right. However, when it comes to Quantum of Solace, I believe the only real way to understand and appreciate the subtle nuances in this movie is to view it in light of Casino Royale. More to the point, I believe Quantum should not necessarily be viewed so much as a sequel film, but as the final act of the movie that preceded it.

Casino Royale is a brilliant film that understands the Bond character as Fleming originally wrote him. The film set out to rediscover Fleming's Bond, and what resulted is, for my money, one of the best espionage action-thrillers of all time. But Casino Royale ended on a relatively quiet note. After he is betrayed by the beautiful but tragic Vesper Lynd (Eva Green), the woman he had fallen in love with, James Bond (Daniel Craig) resolves to hunt down the men responsible for her death. Casino Royale ends as Bond prepares to go on the warpath, but there is no real emotional payoff. We leave Bond in a broken state, and in the film's closing moments he begins walling off his soul, hardening into a stone cold killer. This isn't a criticism. Casino Royale set out to demonstrate how Bond became an emotional train wreck, and it does exactly that. But what it doesn't show is the fallout of Bond's choice to harden himself to the world. The movie ends just as Bond makes his choice. Quantum of Solace picks up the story just moments later, and for the next 100 minutes or so proceeds to show us what Bond looks like when driven by pain and fury in an attempt to process his grief. If Casino Royale lacks the traditional bombastic final sequence common to most action movies, then Quantum more than makes up for it by acting as one long, extended climax. The only way to view these two movies is back-to-back, because together they tell one prolonged story. But it's a mistake to follow this story in terms of traditional plot beats. Instead, this is a story more concerned with spinning its yarn through emotional beats.

That's not to say the action sequences in Quantum of Solace are to be ignored. Quite the opposite, actually. I don't think I've ever seen a film with more carefully plotted action scenes. Take, for example, the fact that the four major action sequences are constructed around the traditional elements: water (the boat chase), air (the plane chase), earth (the desert sequence), and fire (the burning hotel in the film's climax). Most action films are concerned with executing action sequences well. Quantum does this, while also going a step further. Director Marc Forster also uses the action sequences to excavate Bond's psychology, an intentional move gleaned from watching behind the scenes reels of Forster discussing his creative decisions in making the film. The opening car chase is jarringly intense, perfectly introducing us to Bond's fury and rage because of Vesper's death coming out of Casino Royale. From there, a brutal hand-to-hand combat sequence sees him dispatch his targets with ruthless efficiency. The final major action sequence is set in a vast desert, meant to mirror the empty and desolate landscape of Bond's soul, before quite literally exploding in flames as Bond takes his revenge against the organization behind Vesper's betrayal. The final scene is filmed in the snow and the cold, revealing to us a Bond who has finally frozen the parts of himself necessary to do the dirty job of killing dispassionately. Director Marc Forster is something of a savant when it comes to directing the film's harrowing action scenes, using them as more than just spectacle, to actually give viewer's windows into the psychological and emotional state of the film's protagonist.

In Casino Royale, whenever Bond killed someone, we lingered with him, watching him lose a little more of his soul each time. In Quantum, he doesn't so much as blink when he shoots a man to death. This is Bond unhinged, and he doesn't want to talk about it. This movie probably has the least amount of dialogue than any other Bond film. But what little dialogue is present serves to reinforce the notion that Bond is closer than ever to losing his humanity. There's none of the traditional wooing of the primary female character, Bolivian agent Camille Montes (Olga Kurylenko), and you can see this especially in Bond's dynamic with his boss, M, once again played to perfection by the wonderful Dame Judi Dench. She spends a good amount of the movie wondering whether she should trust Bond, or if he's become a loose cannon going too far in his quest for vengeance. Early in Quantum, Bond insists to M that she doesn't need to worry about him, that he hasn't gone off the rails on a quest for vengeance, a statement to which M quickly snaps, "Well, it'd be a pretty cold bastard who didn't want revenge for the death of someone he loved." This single line quickly becomes the movie's thesis. As Bond races to uncover the organization pulling Vesper's strings, he becomes more and more unhinged. It's hinted at different points that Bond has ceased to sleep, and his drinking habits have amplified. Cornering Bond toward the end of the film, M returns to her original prognosis, telling him, "I think you're so blinded by inconsolable rage that you don't care who you hurt." As much as Bond might try to keep himself detached, he can't help himself. He is a man singularly defined by his pain, and that pain drives him.

Looking back at Casino Royale, I noted that the Bond character is inherently tragic. This dimension of his character is more fully fleshed out in Quantum. It's no coincidence that the final moments of this film unfold in wintry Russia, directly correlating with Bond's frozen emotional and psychological state. In Casino Royale, Bond learned his lesson the hard way. In the dirty business of taking lives, no one is to be trusted, and emotional vulnerability is just another way to get oneself killed. There's only one problem: Bond is human. The human element, the part of him ruled by emotions, demands some form of justice, some balm for the pain of betrayal and lost love. This film is about how Bond toes the line between making everything personal, and keeping things detached. In the desert, Bond taking his revenge against the organization is a moment of catharsis and release. So when Bond finally corners the man Vesper used to love in Russia, he has frozen himself. He has become detached. And when faced with the choice of killing the man for his hand in Vesper's death or sparing him, Bond elects to spare him, much to the approval of M. He comes to see things dispassionately. He sees the man as an asset, a means to an end. What the man knows becomes more important than how Bond feels about the whole affair. Though Bond has finally become the cold, ruthless man necessary to carry out death sentences without letting his emotions get in the way, he also becomes capable of detaching himself to the point of making the hard choice of knowing when to not pull the trigger.

It would be a mistake to label this as a victory. Yes, Bond learns that levelheadedness is a crucial component to life, that a man ruled by his emotions can easily lose sight of the bigger picture and let his ego into the equation. But his response to this realization is where he goes wrong. Rather than dealing with his emotions, he resorts to freezing himself in his pain. He closes himself off, crippling himself emotionally so that he will not form attachments like the one he formed with Vesper. He becomes detached, aloof. There will always be an air of mystery about him, a hint of danger, something that will entice many women to fall for him. The problem is, of course, that Bond isn't really a mystery. And the truth is that there isn't a mystery at all—only emptiness. He becomes a shell of a man, who indulges his many vices to keep himself on life support, to feel something. Bond wears a compelling mask. He appears strong in one sense, unflappable in the face of hardships that would cripple any weaker man. But in the sense of true masculinity, the opposite is true. Bond isn't unflappable at all. He's a man who, like most of us, has been crippled by trauma and refuses to deal with it. Perhaps the strongest decision Bond could have made would have been to leave his gun there in the snow alongside Vesper's necklace, to walk away from M and this life altogether. But instead he chooses to stay, because at this point the detachment the job requires is the only thing keeping him from dealing with his pain. The job becomes his life support.

Taken on its own merits, Quantum of Solace is a perfectly serviceable action-thriller. But when viewed as the conclusion of the emotional arc begun in Casino Royale, the film transcends its own shortcomings to become something greater than the sum of its parts. When taken together, both films imbue the Bond character with a depth not seen since Fleming's original novels. They offer a surprisingly thoughtful reflection on how men, especially, deal with emotional trauma. There is a long-standing sentiment that says James Bond is the symbol of what every man wishes he could be. But perhaps the more profound realization sees Bond as the symbol for the choices every man makes to numb himself to the pain that inevitably comes with living in a fallen world, choices that invariably bring about death to feeling. Perhaps Bond is a great moral teacher, warning against the temptation to jettison true masculinity in favor of stunting oneself emotionally in an effort to remain alive, refusing to see that love requires one to be vulnerable, open to the point that one stands the very real chance of being hurt. After all, if love is patient, and love is kind, neither jealous nor arrogant, nor seeking its own fulfillment, then the truth is that love allows the other the power of determination, and with that power comes the possibility of rejection. And even if that rejection comes, true love bears all things, endures all things. If these things are true, perhaps Bond is actually the symbol of what every man who chooses not to feel, who chooses not to love or let himself be loved, is in danger of becoming: a walking shell of a human being leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.

Casino Royale (Retrospective)

Casino Royale (2006)

History will likely remember the mid-2000's as the beginning of the age of reboots, cinematically speaking. 2005 saw Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins reinvent the Batman character for the modern age of moviemaking, the prototypical reboot film. Just over one year later, a more radical reinterpretation of another iconic character would set cinema screens across the world ablaze. I can vaguely recall the backlash over Daniel Craig's casting as Ian Fleming's well-known British spy, James Bond. Everything from his rugged looks to his hair color seemed to be the subject of immense criticism—he just didn't seem the Bond "type." I can't help but wonder if the highly publicized response to his casting actually fueled the man's performance. From the moment Craig's face emerged from the shadows in the film's noir-tinged opening sequence, the naysayers were effectively silenced.

Rarely has the phrase "back to his roots" been more effectively applied than in reference to this big screen adaptation of Fleming's original 1953 novel. It's a fair criticism to suggest that by the time Pierce Brosnan's run as Bond ended with 2002's Die Another Day, the character had become more of a caricature of himself than an actual human being, an ineffable, seemingly immortal action hero on increasingly outlandish escapades. Casino Royale was the much-needed shot in the arm the film series needed. In Daniel Craig, James Bond was not so much reinvented as he was rediscovered, stripped down to his bare essentials, returned to the fires in which he was originally forged. I suspect that, with time, literary and film studies will come to look at Casino Royale as a benchmark for how to adapt older works of literature for modern audiences. In the transition to screen, the novel's basic plot, structure, and major characters are left intact, but the whole thing has been overhauled to fit into a post-9/11 world. Bond himself undergoes the most comprehensive redesign from previous films, being written as something like the character's original incarnation under Fleming's penmanship. Daniel Craig's Bond is more akin to Fleming's than any other, save for perhaps Timothy Dalton's take on the character. In discussions such as these, it is easy to overlook the film's writers in favor of lauding the actors who bring the characters to life. The tremendous contribution of writing trio Neal Purvis, Robert Wade, and Paul Haggis should not be diminished, however, nor should the work of veteran director Martin Campbell in returning Bond to something closer to his original form.

Viewing the film once again in preparation of this particular piece, I was struck by just how cinematically epic the film came across. Bond films have always been sensational events, but this particular film has a certain breadth of scope and assuredness of pacing rarely found in modern films. Martin Campbell is an old warhorse when it comes to the film industry, but he is hardly a household name. It's a bit of a shame, actually, because his approach to Casino Royale gives the film a kind of timeless quality not seen since the old film noirs of classic Hollywood. The movie is no less thrilling now, even after the dozen or so times I've watched it over the years. This is a particularly hard trick to pull off, but Campbell does it flawlessly. I can only think of a handful of films I can rewatch without getting bored, and most of them are in black-and-white. Bond, in both his original literary incarnation and onscreen, has always flirted with themes common to film noir. He's certainly a hardboiled protagonist by way of British storytelling. And, at least in the books, there is hardly an ending in which Bond escapes unscathed. Over the years, these noir-ish elements were toned down in the films in favor of a more exotic, adventuresome feel. Part of what Casino Royale does so well is to rediscover the noir component of Bond's world. Look no further than the film's first five minutes, shot entirely in black-and-white, with heavy shadows and crackling, broken dialogue, if there is any question about this.

I remember thinking, at one point, that this is a film that sizzles. That's the best way I know how to describe it. From opening to closing moments, this film is so shot through with a kind of fiery intensity that one cannot help but become mesmerized by the layers of intrigue. Bond's world is one laced with paranoia, in which a hint of danger can be detected in even the most mundane things. Everything from the extreme close-ups on the faces of the characters, to the wide panoramic establishing shots of the film's numerous settings serves to deepen this sense of deadly exoticism. I've been to Nassau. I love Nassau. But I've never been to Bond's Nassau, a place that is at once bright, warm, and sensual while at the same time being dark, cold, and scandalous.

Casino Royale takes its time without ever meandering, carefully establishing each character. Dame Judi Dench is the only returning cast member from the old era, playing Bond's superior, M. Despite her small stature and soft voice, she cuts a strong, imposing figure who plays more like Bond's mother than she does his boss. The villainous Le Chiffre, played to brilliant perfection by the inimitable Mads Mikkelsen, chews up every scene he's in, and when he finally sits down at the card table with Bond, it seems less like we're watching two men play a high-stakes poker game than it does two clashing titans finally meeting in a cosmic conflict. Le Chiffre is a kind of villain you don't see much in movies anymore. Cold, calculating, afraid to get his hands dirty unless it's absolutely necessary. It's a sexy thing nowadays to make antagonists sympathetic, to give them a "perspective" that the film portrays as being equally valid, or even more valid, than that of the protagonist. Not so with Le Chiffre. This is an evil man, plain and simple. He's out to make money, and whosoever comes between him and his wealth be damned. He's not going to fight the protagonist, he's going to run. He'll plot, he'll scheme, and he'll wait until the perfect moment before he strikes, not only preying on his victims physically, but psychologically and emotionally as well. In many ways, he is Bond's antithesis. Whereas Bond flirts with losing his humanity at every waking moment, Le Chiffre willfully gives into the darkness. Bond is stalwart and a bit reckless, Le Chiffre is cowardly and methodical. The film wisely mines most of its suspense from the mind-games played between these two characters, more so than any sort of raw displays of physicality.

James Bond has always been a bit of a head case, an orphan honed into a lethal assassin who indulges in life's vices as a means of clinging to what little humanity he has left because he is in the most dehumanizing profession of all—taking lives. But at the core of his character is a specific flaw that is all too common: an inability to form emotional attachments. There is a very immature streak to him only hinted at throughout his numerous incarnations, but remains present in every iteration. Somewhere inside the man is a little boy, frozen and numbed by years of emotional scars and by what Fleming, in the novel On Her Majesty's Secret Service, called "dirty, dangerous memories." While Bond the man goes racing along, Bond the boy races to keep up. And this lack of maturity on Bond's part often leads him into emotional entanglements that always end in more damage being piled onto an already fractured psyche. Casino Royale understands this about Bond's character, and this flaw is mined for all its worth through the introduction of Vesper Lynd. Eva Green gives a masterclass performance as Vesper, a soul who is just as tortured as Bond. While Bond's backstory is never outright stated, she peels away the layers of his meticulously-crafted emotional body armor over an astonishing dinner conversation in their very first meeting. Ever the cipher, Vesper matches him tit-for-tat, and seems to be mature in all the ways Bond isn't. Perplexed, Bond quickly falls hard for the woman, but without the emotional maturity to recognize the darkness that is already present in her, and continues to grow with every waking moment they spend together. Perhaps one valid reading of the film sees Casino Royale as a peculiar kind of love story between two haunted, tragic figures, a story destined to end in disaster.

I have said before that I sometimes read Scripture as a tragedy. While the overarching theme of Scripture's epic narrative is certainly one of hope, there are many tragic characters woven throughout the vast tapestry. Take Judas Iscariot, for example. Or John the Baptist, whose life was dramatically cut short by Herod. To go even further back, consider Jeremiah, the prophet known for lamenting his circumstances. Or Absalom. Even David, in some ways. Of course, there is Moses and his contention with the children of Israel. And do I even need to mention Cain? Or Adam? Or Eve? All this goes without pointing out that there is an obvious tragic element to Jesus Christ himself, the God-man who became flesh, born with a singular grim purpose, identified in Isaiah 53 to be a "man of sorrows." I'm not suggesting that James Bond or Casino Royale should even be considered anything remotely close to Scripture; however, the point here is to demonstrate that tragic figures are not merely villainous individuals and that tragic figures can, at times, have more to teach us about things of eternal significance than the regular happy-clappy stories we so often hear presented to us in airbrushed fashion for twenty minutes on a Sunday morning. You cannot fully appreciate the tragedy of Christ's crucifixion without seeing the toll that Judas's terrible choice takes on his being, ultimately driving him to suicide. You cannot appreciate the full weight of Christ's redemptive work on the cross and in his resurrection without first understanding the absolute devastation wrought upon the world by Adam and Eve and their dark tempter. And you cannot appreciate the character of James Bond—literarily or otherwise—until you understand the tragic dimensions of his character, as a man who will always and forever keep hurting himself and the people around him because he never, as he admits in the 2015 film Spectre, stops to think about it.

There is a real lesson to be learned in examining the Bond character, especially for men. It has to do with the tendency to not reflect on their choices and life decisions. It has to do with learning to be emotionally vulnerable and emotionally intelligent. It has to do with learning the dimensions of their own souls to pinpoint those areas that have calloused because of years of damage and scarring, the parts of ourselves we are unwilling to face because they mean we must allow ourselves to risk being hurt by someone else. And it has to do, ultimately, with how we choose to take those parts of ourselves to the foot of the cross, so that they are redeemed, becoming part of the new man.

It amazes me how intuition works, how even at a very young age I could find shades of myself in Bond's character. My own emotional detachments began at a point earlier than I can remember, accentuated by familial dysfunction, as I suspect it has for many, many others as well. And I continually find that the hardest thing I do is willingly choose to let Christ scour me inside and out, each and every day, with the most ruthless brush of all. To bring to the forefront of my thoughts all the little defense mechanisms that keep me numb to reality, withdrawn, and reticent to let Christ work in my own life. I always emerge from the scouring a little better off than I was before, finding that the air I breathe is just a little cleaner, my sight just a little clearer. And it's this daily routine, this daily dying to oneself, of politely telling myself, "No," when I begin to feel myself receding, that is simultaneously the hardest and most necessary thing I do. I suppose this is what Christ meant when he admonished his followers to carry their own crosses.

I have very few deep and abiding affections. A few of them are for certain people. A few of them are for certain foods. And fewer still are for certain characters. Mulder and Scully have taught me much about eros, and love, and how to navigate my faith in my weaker moments when I'm ready to throw it all away. But James Bond, that dark, haunted, tragic figure, has captivated me the longest. Teaching me more than any other about the devastated landscape of my own soul.

But there is one still who lurks in the deepest recesses of my imagination, larger and more ancient than Bond. One who has always been there, though it took me years to recognize his presence. The one who has blessed me and kept me, and who, through these characters, has shone his face upon me and administered much grace, ever pulling me further up, and further in to his own story. The story in which my own personal tragedies are given texture and accounted for, where my own terrible choices are brought into startling, painful clarity. The same story where tragedy gives way to hope, and hope ultimately gives meaning to the tragedy.