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Italy: Dario Argento, 1975

(Watched with my own commentary)

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UK/USA: Mike Newell, 2005

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USA: Chris Columbus, 1990

(Watched with commentary by Chris Columbus and Macaulay Culkin)

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USA/UK/Czech Republic: Martin Campbell, 2006

I'll say it upfront: I'm not what you'd call a Bond fan. Oh, I've seen a fair share of the films, and have enjoyed a number of them to some degree, but I'm by no means a completist, and can't recall ever seeing one that I've absolutely loved. Even the strongest, most strait-laced ones, which, for me, have been the two Timothy Dalton ventures, had their moments of high camp that were at best annoying and at worst verged on bringing the whole thing crashing down. As such, my review of Casino Royale should be taken very much as an outsider's point of view. What I liked and disliked about it won't necessarily be the same things that a hardcore Bond fan will like and dislike.

The short version: this is a very good film. Actually, it's close to being an excellent film, with only a handful of problems preventing it from being a top-tier effort. I'll get on to these in due course, but first, I must say that I really liked this "reboot". In the past, Bond films seem to have gone lurched back and forth between serious to camp, with a Licence to Kill being followed by a Moonraker (well, that's chronologically incorrect, but it serves the purpose of illustrating the series' two extremes). As you can probably gather, I prefer the former, and found Timothy Dalton's hard-edged, merciless portrayal of 007 to be far superior to Roger Moore's nudge-nudge wink-wink camp antics. Even Dalton had his flaws, though, for me, stemming mainly from the fact that, when the scripts called for him to be more light-hearted, he seemed hopelessly out of his depth.

Casino Royale is no Roger Moore romp. It's the first Bond film I've seen that is completely straight-faced. That's not to say that there isn't humour in it, but the humour is subtler, derived not from Bond foiling the terrorists and parachuting down to Felix Leiter's wedding all in one swish movement (a particularly cringe-inducing moment in the otherwise commendable Licence to Kill), but rather from various dry retorts that, while self-conscious, ultimately serve the characters rather than playing to the gallery. (Bond's response when asked whether he wants his Martini shaken or stirred put a smile on my face.)

The change in tone is partially due to the script, but also in no small part to the casting of Daniel Craig as Bond. Back when various actors were being touted as successors to the bland Pierce Brosnan (not a fan, sorry), I immediately latched on to him as my preferred choice (although the alternatives, ranging from Hugh Jackman to Orlando Bloom, meant that there really wasn't much of a contest as far as I was concerned), and was most pleased when he got the part. People, however, were criticising the choice before they even saw a frame of footage: "Craig's too ugly, he's not sophisticated, he's... he's... he's blond!" To that I say "Phooey!" Craig is certainly nothing like any of his predecessors, but, in my opinion, he comes the closest of all to making Bond seem human. Timothy Dalton was tough, sure, but I always saw him as more an attitude than a real person. Craig, in contrast, doesn't really have the sophistication of some of his predecessors, but this "blunt instrument", as M (Judi Dench - whose retention, despite this reboot, didn't bother me anything like as much as I thought it would) puts it, lives and breathes in a way that the others, for me, didn't. (That said, bear in mind that I've yet to see George Lazenby's turn in On Her Majesty's Secret Service, regarded by a number to be Bond's most human turn.)

In part, that's due to the way the writers build up his relationship with Vesper Lynd (Eva Green, a fantastic actress and a Bond girl who, unusually, seems to have been cast for her acting abilities as much as her looks). Theirs is a relationship that begins as a series of thinly-veiled sniping matches, but which eventually becomes one of mutual dependence, as both find that the job they have to do is no walk in the park. The scene in which Bond comforts a tearful Vesper, who has just seen two men killed in front of her, packs more emotional punch than any other scene that I've seen in the series. You get the feeling that Bond genuinely cares about this woman and that, had things been different, their relationship would have gone further. (I'm trying to avoid spoilers here.) Oh, and it also helps that Green is convincing as an intelligent secret service agent - Denise Richards she ain't.

But what of the setting? A casino hall didn't sound to me like the most exciting location in which to set a 140-minute film, not least because I know nothing about cards. Well, the truth is that it doesn't matter. I still know nothing about the game that was being played, despite Bond's handy explanation of it to Vesper, but in reality it's not necessary to understand the details in order to become engrossed. The casino, while the backdrop of a significant portion of the film, is really just that - a backdrop - with more interesting events being played out against it. Lest anyone be under any misconceptions, it's also worth pointing out that the entire film is not set there: Bond doesn't reach the casino until over an hour into the film.

Oh yes, and it's bloody. This film is vicious - far more so than Licence to Kill. The Bond of this film gets beaten and bloodied, and he gives as good as he gets: I can see where the notion that Craig is a thuggish Bond comes from, for he really is absolutely ruthless in the various action scenes, thrashing his opponents within an inch of their lives and, on several occasions, killing in cold blood. Nothing quite lives up to the sheer brutality of the opening bathroom beating (although the torture sequence comes close), but the approach to violence throughout the entire film is more visceral and realistic than anything we've seen before. This time, we actually believe that Bond stands a chance of failing - he's pitted against people who are more than a match for him. As befits this grittier Bond, the film was shot in the inherently grainier Super35, compared to the smooth Anamorphic Panavision of its immediate predecessors.

Having tossed around so many superlatives, I now feel inclined to point out the areas in which the film is more problematic. I essentially have three main complaints:

1. The product placement. This film, which features gratuitous advertisements for everything from Sony Ericsson phones to Blu-ray discs, leaves you in doubt that Bond is now property of Columbia Pictures.

2. The title sequence. The song is forgettable, but the execution of the graphics themselves is cringe-inducing. The concept - a "cards" motif that also showcases the new Bond - is pretty decent, but someone decided to apply a cheap, quasi-animated "cel-shaded" effect to it, which looks like something out of a video game.

3. The pacing. I didn't mind the length, surprisingly enough, but I do agree with criticisms that the final act is rather anticlimactic. My understanding is that Ian Fleming's original novel was more or less the second act, and that the bulk of the first and third acts were fabricated for the film. It's a difficult situation - I'm not sure how I would have done things differently had I been writing it - but, despite an explosive climax in Venice, it feels a bit like an over-long afterthought after

Highlight below to reveal spoiler text:
the main villain has been disposed of.

All in all, though, I had a blast. This one, for me, more than lived up to the hype, and I can't remember ever becoming so engaged by a Bond film before. After 20 films playing to largely the same formula, I'm glad they shook things up with a leaner, meaner interpretation, and that, for once, the public seems to have accepted it.

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USA/UK/Germany: James McTeigue, 2005

(Watched with In-Movie Experience)

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USA: Alfred Hitchcock, 1966

After the disappointment of Topaz, I was dreading this, a film seemingly even more reviled than that particular misadventure. As luck would have it, though, Torn Curtain is in a completely different league. The reviews may have been a bit muted, but I thoroughly enjoyed what is essentially a European North by Northwest, featuring a double agent, Professor Michael Armstrong (Paul Newman), who, along with his girlfriend Sarah (Julie Andrews), finds himself on the run from the East German authorities from whom he has been tasked to procure vital information about an anti-missile defence system.

I'll begin by stating what doesn't work with this film. Yes, it's true that Paul Newman and Julie Andrews are incredibly miscast (especially the former, who is never convincing as a brilliant nuclear scientist). Hitchcock made it known to them in no uncertain terms that he didn't want to be making the film, and the hostility on the set permeates throughout their performances. It's also true that, like Topaz, Torn Curtain features another disappointing score (Hitchcock and Bernard Herrmann had a massive falling-out during the scoring process, with the two never working together again, with the replacement score by John Addison coming across as bland and, again, too light-hearted). Furthermore, there's very little new on offer here, with the script (originally penned by Brian Moore but redone by ghost-writers after Hitchcock threw most of his work out) cobbling together various ideas from other films in Hitchcock's career, ranging from the "two lovers on the run" theme of The 39 Steps to the "spy manipulates girlfriend for the greater good" motif of Notorious.

Are these problems? Absolutely, but they don't stop Torn Curtain from being an immensely enjoyable film. Newman actually makes a reasonably effective hero provided he's not trying to pass himself off as a scientist, and, while the plot is nothing new, it didn't bore me for a minute. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I was riveted throughout, and, in the run-up towards the climax, it all becomes incredibly tense and exciting. It may play like something of a greatest hits package, in much the same vein as Argento's Non Ho Sonno, but by and large Hitchcock is reusing material that was successful for a reason, and continues to work the second time round. It also has Lila Kedrova (who I knew for her role in Massimo Dallamano's The Cursed Medallion) hamming it up something rotten, which is definitely a good thing. The most acclaimed moment, however, and rightly so, is a sequence in which Armstrong and a peasant woman find themselves forced to murder Armstrong's "minder", Gromek (Wolfgang Kieling). Memorable for showing just how difficult it is to kill a man (stabbing him and bludgeoning him with a shovel don't work, so they eventually have to push his head inside an oven and gas him), it shows that, even if he wasn't having the time of his life making this lower-tier effort, Hitchcock was still able to rise to the occasion and deliver something truly imaginative.

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USA: Alfred Hitchcock, 1969

Sometimes, even the great ones misfire: this would be Hitchcock's turn. There are essentially three problems with Topaz: the casting, the script, and the length of the damn thing. The plot revolves around André Devereaux (Frederick Stafford), a French spy who is roped in by the Americans to identify the members of Topaz, a group of top French government officials working for the Soviets. Or, at least, that's the plot as it seems to boil down. In reality, the film is two hours and twenty minutes of meandering, plodding flimflam that gradually makes its way towards a thoroughly anticlimactic conclusion.

It starts out well enough, with a tense and reasonably effective defection by a top KGB official and his family, while on holiday in Denmark. Had the entire film been like this, I would have been rapt. Sadly, this soon gives way to a whole lot of uninvolving nonsense as the bland Stafford travels first to Harlem, then to Havana, and then finally to Paris. The actor is miscast, and the character is uninteresting. Indeed, the most engaging aspect of the material in Havana is that his lover, resistance leader Juanita de Cordoba (Karin Dor), looks quite a lot like giallo scream queen Edwige Fenech. Maurice Jarre's score, meanwhile, is somewhat forgettable and, even worse, at times highly inappropriate - witness, for example, a late scene in which, believing that his son-in-law has fallen to his death, Devereaux and his daughter Michèle (Claude Jade) rush down the stars to music that wouldn't seem out of place in a madcap comedy.

Still, at the end of the day, it's Hitchcock, and as such, even in its worst moments it's technically solid. It also has its brief moments of genius - the aforementioned introductory scenes in Denmark are gripping, as is a lengthy sequence in which Devereaux's associate, Philippe Dubois (an underused Roscoe Lee Browne), distracts Cuban leader Rico Parra (John Vernon) while his secretary makes off with a suitcase. The death of Juanita is also masterfully handled, with, as Mike Sutton points out in his review, her dress spreading out like the petals of a flower as she sinks to the ground. Even at his weakest, Hitchcock always manages to inject a moment or two of delight into his films. Topaz has its fair share, but, for the most part, it's simply too plodding, too overwrought, too downright inconsequential for it to sit in the same company as classics like The Birds and North by Northwest, or even later gems like Frenzy.

For completists only.

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Original title: Sei Donne per l'Assassino
Italy/Monaco/France/West Germany: Mario Bava, 1964

Along with Dario Argento and Lucio Fulci, Mario Bava is often considered to be part of the holy trinity of Italian horror cinema. In 1963, he wrote and directed The Girl Who Knew Too Much, which is widely considered to be the first ever giallo film, and his influence can be felt in virtually every American slasher film of the 1980s, with his Bay of Blood (also known as Twitch of the Death Nerve) having been ripped off wholesale by Sean S. Cunningham with Friday the 13th.

Despite this, however, I've never really been able to get into Bava's films in the way that I have with Argento, Fulci and other less immediately memorable giallo directors like Massimo Dallamano, Aldo Lado, Luciano Ercoli and Paolo Cavara. Bava is one of the finest visual craftsmen ever to have lived - that much, I think, is undeniable - and the minuscule budgets he had to work with only serves to make his achievements all the more remarkable. I think that he is often let down by his scripts, though. Bava was very much a "director for hire" in the traditional sense: he would turn his hand to anything in order to put food on the table, and, as such, he never claimed a genre as his own in the way that Argento did with giallo and Sergio Leone did with the Western. A lot of Bava's films, therefore, fail to engage me, because I often get the feeling that he wasn't truly invested in what he was doing. As visually awe-inspiring as his work is, he often seems to have found himself working with rather generic scripts, and while I don't think that an amazing screenplay is by any means the be-all and end-all of a film, most of the time I struggle to understand the big deal with his films.

If The Girl Who Knew Too Much was the film that started the giallo phenomenon, it was Blood and Black Lace, made a year later, that solidified many of the archetypes that would be adopted wholesale during the boom of the early 1970s: the masked, black-attired killer; the cast of nubile women being offed; the psychosexual nature of the murders; the parade of shifty suspects, all with something to hide. The narrative, as such, seems a bit derivative, although it must be remembered that this is the one that set the stage for what was to come. It's not a particularly remarkable plot, though, even taking into account its position as a forerunner to the genre: a series of murders are taking place, the victims all models from a prestigious agency. The usual shifty-looking characters are on the prowl, and, despite dropping like flies, none of the women are particularly eager to divulge what they know. I doubt that this would have been considered original stuff even at the time of its release. Rightly or wrongly, however, it has been retroactively identified as the first ever "body count movie".

What does stand out as remarkable, though, is the photography. Even by Bava's already high standards, this is one incredible-looking piece of work. He originally trained as a painter, and it shows: every frame is expertly composed, with a level of three-dimensionality that sucks you into the world, despite its obviously artificial appearance. It's obvious that Argento was heavily influenced by this when he did Suspiria 13 years later, and yet the comparisons are somewhat unjust. Whereas Suspiria's setting could never be mistaken for that of the real world, Blood and Black Lace's feels authentic despite its deliberate artifice.

In the final analysis, therefore, I can't claim to be as enamoured by Blood and Black Lace as some, but I appreciate it as a key film partially responsible for spawning one of the Italian film industry's most lucrative filoni, and as an outstanding achievement in a technical sense. This is definitely a film that deserves to be seen by a wider audience, so that people can appreciate not only where the giallo genre came from, but also the American slasher movement of the 1970s and 80s. Bava definitely doesn't get the recognition he deserves as a trendsetter.

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USA: John Lasseter, 2006

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Original title: Astérix et les Vikings
France/Denmark: Stefan Fjeldmark/Jesper Møller, 2006

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