My private obsession: James Bond

Well, maybe it’s not so private. If you’ve ever been hanging out at my place on a hungover Sunday, you’ve probably watched one of the old Sean Connery movies with me. Or if you’ve ever been in my bathroom, you’ve noticed that I have a Goldfinger poster mounted on the wall. So I guess it’s not so subtle.

I think the reason I love Bond films so much is that they’re so lavishly stylish: James Bond is impeccably dressed, drinks fine wine, stays in the world’s best hotels, and drives fancy European cars. As someone who appreciates nice things, the Bond eye candy is satisfying in and of itself.

My favorite Bond flick of all time has to be From Russia With Love. Most of the Sean Connery films are pretty good, the Roger Moore films are generally quite mediocre, and Goldeneye was the only really good Pierce Brosnan film. The last couple Bonds were mostly duds. Casino Royale is killer though. I went to it on opening night and was completely satisfied. I was a little skeptical of Daniel Craig at first (I’m partial to the slim, sleek, dark-haired pretty boy look that Sean Connery exemplified in the early Bond films), but Craig did an awesome job as a young James Bond: arrogant, foolish, and generally kind of a meat head. Craig is certainly not a pretty boy in this film, but he’s sexy ugly. He’s the Bond with the biggest pecs ever. If you recall the scene where he’s wearing tight drawstring linen pants and seducing a terrorist’s wife, you may also think he’s the Bond with the best looking bottom ever. Out magazine gave him a 008 as a shagability rating in a comparison of Bond actors, second only to Sean Connery at 10.

One huge misfortune that the Bond film franchise has bestowed upon us, however, is the idea that martinis should be “shaken, not stirred”. Bartenders everywhere will now shake the shit out of your fine vodka or gin before serving it to you as a shameful cup of bruised alcohol watered down with ice chunks. I’ll have mine stirred, thanks. I’ll never forget the time I ordered a Grey Goose martini at a chachi bar and watched a barely legal blonde bimbo throw her arms over her shoulders and gyrate with the shaker like it was a freakin tambourine. When she was done with it, my $15 martini tasted like ice water with a splash of booze. Sigh.