SPECTRE - Review By Thomas Zachary Toles - There Cannot Be Spoilers in this Review of Spectre Because You Already KNOW What Happens

Klymkiw hates Sam Mendes, hated every Bond reboot aside from Casino Royale and hates Spectre. Klymkiw's going to take a nap whilst Rhodes Scholar Extraordinaire, Thomas Zachary Toles, AVIDLY inspects Spectre.

Spectre (2015)
Dir. Sam Mendes
Starring: Daniel Craig, Christoph Waltz, Ralph Fiennes

Review By Thomas Zachary Toles

I would like to formally congratulate Judy Dench for escaping the Bond franchise.

Early in the Dench-free Spectre, Bond (Daniel Craig) is suspended from MI6 for having the audacity to play by his own infinitely successful rules. Casting red tape aside as if it were a sexually frustrated woman, 007 walks defencelessly into a shadowy organization’s home-crater and murders legions of poorly trained goons, only to feel an arbitrary pang of mercy before finishing off their impossibly vile leader, Oberhauser (Christoph Waltz). As M (played by Ralph Fiennes, the pitiful rescuer of Judy Dench) explains, this proves to us that Bond, unlike a drone, knows when not to kill.

Bond vows to quit MI6 so he can settle down into a hollow relationship, mainly to provide him with fresh emotional baggage that might just propel him into another adventure in 2018.

Spectre’s absurdly cobbled together plot is meant to suggest that Oberhauser is the architect of all of Bond’s recent tragedies, the big final boss of Craig’s career as the secret agent. Oberhauser is interested in global surveillance, a contemporary paranoia that is pitted against the apparently unproblematic alternative: white male government agents with carte blanche access to exquisitely lethal weaponry.

The most amusing part of Spectre comes on the heels of the recent revelation that Daniel Craig hates playing Bond, despising the character’s misogyny nearly enough to turn down the tri-annual dump truck of money at Craig Manor. There is a [*ahem*] spectre of weary embarrassment behind Craig’s eyes even as he throws a man off a train or ejects himself from a car.

As a matter of fact, Sam Smith, the musician behind Spectre’s completely inappropriate theme, also seems intent on puncturing whatever remains of the Bond myth.

Spectre is far more comprehensible than Quantum of Solace (the opening scene is fairly strong) and, in some ways, less annoying than Skyfall (no childhood homes in sight), but it continues to spin the wheels of a franchise that really ought to be on its last legs. What a plunge from Casino Royale, which miraculously suggested that there might still be something to admire in a well-made, intelligently ironic Bond film.

Though the Mission: Impossible films do many impressive things that the Bond films fail to do, somehow the 007 brand keeps attracting audience members in droves. And I admit, Bond’s allure has sustained a certain nostalgic significance for me, despite the many dubious aspects of the franchise. If Idris Elba could somehow be cast as the interminable spy, my ears might perk up. Until then, I stand by Bond’s decision at Spectre’s conclusion to walk away from his thoroughly exhausted lifestyle.

Sadly, I know that Craig’s claim that he would rather slash his wrists than play Bond again is as unrealistic as his character’s departure from MI6. Both the actor and the character will undoubtedly reprise their roles in a forthcoming jaunt into the high-octane doldrums.

Sam Mendes, the director of Skyfall and now, Spectre, proves once again that he can kill James Bond as easily as he decimates most every movie he purports to direct. On the other hand, the producers of the Bond franchise, like Bond himself, are experts in knowing when not to kill something.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *½ One-and-a-half stars

Predictably, Spectre is playing everywhere.

Greg Klymkiw takes a good, healthy DUMP upon the very WORST that Cinema had to offer in 2012. The TEN WORST MOVIES OF 2012.

The Worst Movies of 2012
By Greg Klymkiw

2012 could well have been much worse than it was, but for the most part, the year yielded a lot of great stuff. That said, there's more than enough celluloid trash to kvetch about and believe me, you'll find plenty of my kvetching here. Contenders I mulled over for inclusion that you won't find here included Ben Affleck's overrated racist compost toilet Argo, the absolutely pointless, boring and abominable Hitchcock, Brandon Cronenberg's dull, humourless and idiotic Antiviral, Spielberg's plodding Lincoln, the bloated Les Miserables, and a whole raft of mediocre comedies, horror films and pretentious art films. Consider them all runners-up.

Here, though, for your edification are my absolute Top Ten Worst Films of 2012. Technically there are a few more than 10 on my list, but three of the films are so interchangeable that they ended up being listed as a tie. The worst trend this year was to hire directors who can't direct action and/or suspense to handle films replete with action and/or suspense. The bottom line is that the films listed below were awful enough to bring out the ornery, rascally rabbit in me.

As per usual, I present the titles in alphabetical order.

Read 'em and weep!

Klymkiw's 10 WORST movies of 2012

Didn't Sam Raimi already make this movie?

The Amazing Spider-Man dir. Marc Webb

Pitching the Turd: So, uh, let's do the origin of Spidey again, but with a new cast and let's make sure it's not as good because people will come anyway. Oh, let's get the director of Hilary Duff and Miley Cyrus music videos. He'll know what to do.

Catching the Turd: The bland, tasteful hack-manship of this movie slides down one's gullet not unlike the ease with which sewage spills into water treatment tanks. With by-the-numbers direction that delivers the all-too-familiar Spidey origin story (which Sam Raimi already did with so much force and panache - not that long ago), we basically get a slight reworking; a barely competent lame-duck that's little more than a cash-grab. The movie is dull and depressing, but even more so are the boneheads who paid money to see it. Are contemporary audiences so stupid that they require these endless reboots? Are they so bereft of attention spans that they need a pallid re-telling of Spidey's origin so soon? Have they become such lambs-to-the-slaughter suckers they'll contribute readily to putting money in the pockets of the unimaginative business school graduates pretending to be studio moguls? The answer it would seem is a resounding "Yes!"

TIED WITH . . .

Gee, this movie seems awfully familiar.

The Avengers dir. Joss Whedon

Pitching the Turd: Asgard's exiled Loki, hooks up with evil aliens to steal a cube of power. He hypnotizes Hawkeye and Professor Selvig to assist him. Nick Fury pulls in Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, Captain America, Thor and The Black Widow to fight the power from the outer reaches of the universe. The super heroes squabble. They kiss and make up. They fight the bad guys. They win. The Earth is free.

Catching the Turd: Television writer-director Joss Whedon accomplishes the sort of thing TV directors and other filmmakers bereft of any real cinematic voice employ. Endless closeups, more shots and cuts than Sergei Eisenstein would have ever imagined being used (and he used plenty), no sense of spatial geography, genuinely good fight choreography butchered by excessive cutting, a grating, pounding soundscape, a thunderous score and a whole lot of thunder signifying not much of anything. The whole affair is executed with a cudgel. It's depressing to realize that audiences have become so numbed by bad filmmaking they'll have no difficulty embracing these loathsome efforts. Joss Whedon is not a filmmaker. Like the woeful J.J. Abrams, Christopher Nolan and others of this overrated, untalented ilk, Whedon is a hack. There's nary a single shot in the film that suggests he has a filmmaker's eye and though he apparently has a good reputation as a writer in television (I don't bother to watch television), he clearly hasn't got what it takes to generate a script with the sweep and true spectacle needed for a feature. Oh, and the movie bored the shit out of me.

TIED WITH . . . 

Pardon me, I'm looking for Bridget Fonda.

The Dark Knight Rises dir. Christopher "One Idea" Nolan

Pitching the Turd: Gotham City is crime free. Harvey Dent has become Jesus Christ and Commissioner Gordon is feeling guilty about suppressing the real truth for the "good" of the city. Batman is off the radar whilst Bruce Wayne mopes about in seclusion with his loyal butler Alfred. A plucky cat burglar who looks like Anne Hathaway with body paint for clothes, takes a shine to Bruce as does a wealthy socialite who looks an awful lot like the French woman who played Edith Piaf (only without the "ugly" makeup). Out of nowhere comes an incredibly bland villain with a bunch of tubes and steel pipes in his face. It's impossible to understand half his dialogue, but no matter, he's there to do evil, not to be understood. He's a terrorist bent on giving the city back to criminals. This will never do, of course, so Batman comes to the rescue, but not before an endlessly drawn out sequence in some weird-ass pit in the middle of nowhere as Bruce needs to climb out of the hole to triumphantly beat the bad guy. Oh yeah, there's a nice young cop who believes in Batman and lends a hand. His name is - WAIT FOR IT - Robin. Alas, no homoerotic subtext here. Nolan leaves that bit o' business twixt Bruce Wayne and Alfred.

Catching the Turd: Christopher Nolan has a very distinctive style. It doesn't mean he can direct. He's dull, dour, pretentious, humourless and has absolutely no talent for directing action sequences. He does, however, usually have one idea.

I'm an auteur, don'cha know?

I can act, write & direct. Just like Orson Welles.

When acting I have one expression.

Here it is again. Enjoy!

Friends With Kids dir. Jennifer Westfeldt

Pitching the Turd: Two fuck buddies see how marriage and kids have ruined the carefree lives of all their friends until they realize that it's okay to be more than fuck buddies and ruin their own lives too.

Catching the Turd: Easily the most nauseating film of the year that forces an interminable wait to discover if the most sickening romantic movie couple in recent film history will eventually find happiness with each other. Before the inevitable no-brainer is revealed we have to put up with TV-sitcom-styled dialogue trying pathetically to be sophisticated, fired out in Howard Hawks-like rat-a-tat-tat fashion, purportedly in homage to classic romantic screwball comedy, but in reality, simply masking how shallow all the characters are, including everything that spews out of their mouths. We are therefore forced to wallow, like pigs in a trough full of horrendous upper-middle-class values in these repugnant empty vessels - either to remind us how wonderful the lifestyles of bourgeois sheep are or as a carrot of "success" to dangle before those who aspire to emulating these frightful people and their negligible existence. Especially grotesque is the bourgeois breeder mentality that infuses all the characters - particularly our two main characters. There's a selfishness and immaturity that we're all supposed to, uh, "relate" to. I'd personally find it easier to relate to Manson Family values than these petty, machine-tooled "sophisticates". And lest we forget, this painful, pus-filled boil of a movie stars the hideously unwatchable Jennifer Westfeldt, one of the most woefully inexpressive actresses I've ever had the displeasure to witness on a big screen. Not only does she have a clumping, clod-hopping gait, but her face is weirdly frozen. Westfeldt is clearly too young to have been mainlining Botox, but I'd hate to think how immobile her expressions would be if and when she does partake in this hideous, dehumanizing butchery. Of course it's Westfeldt who is responsible for this abomination as she also wrote (in a manner of speaking) and directed (as it were) what is easily one of the worst romantic comedies of the new millennium.

I'm going to find you and I'm going to… Oh, Shite! Wrong movie.

The Grey dir. Joe Carnahan

Pitching the Turd: Liam Neeson, a sharpshooting wolf killer and co-workers from an Arctic Oil Rig are on a plane that crashes in the middle of a wolf pack's happy hunting grounds. The coterie of macho wolf-bait is the usual assortment of miscreants - leading to all manner of personality conflicts amidst the very real threat of being devoured and/or freezing to death.

Catching the Turd: A new film from the director of The A-Team, Smokin' Aces and Narc is NOT, I assure you, a ringing endorsement. Joe Carnahan shoehorns fake existential male angst into a straight-up action thriller, bone-headedly assuming he'll lift the material out of its genre roots. He's a snob and an incompetent one at that. The wolf attacks are directed with all the style of an apprentice butcher raising his sledgehammer tentatively over the skull of a cow before letting it sloppily crash down upon the bovine cranium. The action is almost always in closeup and utilizes lazy herky-jerky shooting in tandem with Attention Deficit Disorder quick cutting.

As you can see, I have extremely large lips.

The Hunger Games dir. Gary Ross

Pitching the Turd: Based on the first of three bestselling books by Suzanne Collins, children are forced to murder each other on live television.

Catching the Turd: This might have made for a decent picture if it came closer to Norman Jewison's Rollerball crossed with Kinji Fukasaku's Battle Royale - the cool dystopian future vision of the former and the utterly insane ultra violence of the latter. However, to make a dream picture like this, even with the dreadful script based on a dreadful book would have required something resembling a director which, helmer Gary Ross clearly isn't. In fact, Ross reaches his filmmaking nadir with this. He's yet another director who has absolutely no idea how to direct suspense and action. Full of annoying shaky-cam and endless, cheap-jack quick cuts, he's all bluster and not much else. He has no idea of spatial geography, his camera placements are all a big mess and there is nary a thrilling moment in the entire movie. Add to the film's ineptitude a plodding 142-minute running time and it's a recipe for guaranteed international worldwide boxoffice success amongst audiences who are collectively not unlike Winnie The Pooh - being, as he was, a bear of very little brain..

There are no leading roles for women, but I will do quite nicely.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey dir. Peter Jackson

Pitching the Turd: Let's take a slender novel and blow the first part of it up to a 170-minute movie. It's Tolkein's precursor to The Lord of the Rings. Bilbo leaves the Shire with Gandalf and a bunch of Middle Earthlings to get something (or to do something, or to meet someone or to. . . whatever) and have them walk for a long time and punctuate the walking (and talking) with occasional fights with monsters and bad guys. Eventually, they'll get what they're looking for (sort of) and the movie will prepare us for a sequel.

Catching the Turd: The Hobbit is a lame ride. The movie is interminably boring, the action scenes are surprisingly and rather lamely directed, the special effects are predictably - uh, digital - many of the set-pieces are structured like video game roller coaster rides and worst of all, the stalwart Viggo Mortensen hero-type is unbearably awful and has absolutely no screen presence. None whatsoever. Where they dredged that loser up was beyond me until I checked out his credits after seeing the movie and saw he was a longtime TV actor. Oh, and it's just under three hours long. I assure you that one never gets that precious time back.

You'll be happy when I give myself a Cesarian. Not much else to enjoy here.

Prometheus dir. Ridley Scott

Pitching the Turd: Scientists go to another planet and discover that it was once populated by alien beings who were responsible for creating life on Earth until they were wiped out by the nasty monster aliens from Alien. Yes, Alien - which makes this a prequel, no less, and with that great film's original director. Anyone who thinks Prometheus should be viewed as a stand-alone piece and NOT a prequel to Alien (as some have suggested, including the director) is an idiot. It's a prequel all right.

Catching the Turd: Prometheus is all sizzle and no steak. There's way too much boring New-Agey stuff, no real scares (save for one that is ripped off from the original Alien) and a much larger cast to give the aliens more to eat (though it means little because we never get to know any of them as characters). The movie is rife with BIG IDEAS, but most of them are introduced, then dropped in favour of forward thrust and pyrotechnics. Even more offensive is the predictable conclusion that offers up a sequel or two. I saw it coming from very early on and prayed the story WOULDN'T go where it did. It did. So much for shocker endings; though in fairness, a gibbon might have some trouble predicting the outcome.

What's my motivation, Oliver? Schwance, baby, schwance.

Savages dir. Oliver Stone

Pitching the Turd: The idiotically named "O" is the coffee table centrepiece in a groovy menage with her dope dealing boyfriends Ben and Chon. These guys make wicked dope, live the high life in their California dream house and boink the beautiful, but vapid O. When a Mexican drug cartel run by a Latina she-bitch seeks to muscle-in on their action, their dream comes crashing to a halt when O is kidnapped by the baddies and held hostage until they do the deal.

Catching the Turd: Easily Oliver Stone's worst movie ever. With a trio of bland lead characters and a clutch of over-the-top villains, there's little to keep our interest. I have no problem with the heroes being dope dealers who are simply trying to protect their turf - my problem is that they're such dull, hippy-dippy and ultimately, empty dope dealers. And while the villains all chew the scenery, none of them feel like they're especially having any fun doing it. The movie is a misfire from beginning to end. All it has going for it is the violence which, I'll admit is staged with Stone's trademark style and efficiency, but because there's virtually nothing in the movie that's remotely engaging, even the well-staged carnage feels like a waste. The whole picture feels phoned-in.

BOND: She's all mine, Raoul. Hands off. RAOUL: Oh, Bond. She's more than enough woman for both us. M: Oh, for Jesus H. Christ's sake! Drop your goddamn drawers. I can take both of youse Nancy-Boys on, plus Mr. Kincade and his bleeding stupid hunting dog. KINCADE: Och! Welcome to Scotland.

Skyfall dir. Sam Mendes

Pitching the Turd: James Bond views M as his Mommy because he was orphaned as a child. A terrorist who used to work for M is now trying to discredit her. The terrorist once looked upon M as his Mommy too because, like Bond, he was orphanedBond goes after him. Any guesses as to the outcome? I, for one, was looking forward to s scene where Bond and The Terrorist threw their arms open to each other and invite M for a bit of Mommy-Love Daisy Chain action. It didn't happen, but as I'm a professional (don'cha know?) I did not let it affect my assessment of the film.

Catching the Turd: Problem: Sam Mendes can't direct action. Problem: Sam Mendes can't direct (even though he continues to fool critics and Oscar voters otherwise). Problem: Sam Mendes has no sense of fun, nor anything resembling a sense of humour. These are big problems. Mendes is not only an overrated director, he's a magician, though not the kind that creates screen magic, but the sort who truly bamboozles audiences, studio heads, producers, financiers (and, sadly, reviewers) into thinking he's good. It must be the accent. He's a poseur of the highest order and has never made a decent picture. That said, I put these prejudices aside because I love Daniel Craig as Bond (in Casino Royale only, though) and I love James Bond (in many of his incarnations over the decades). I enjoyed the first two minutes of Skyfall, but as soon as the big action set-piece began, my heart sank. The entire opening has little sense of spatial geography, far too many closeups, a ridiculous number of cuts and only a handful of wide shots to take in the action. Car chase, motorcycle chase, foot chase and finally, spectacular leaps on top of a moving train do little more than exhaust the audience. Mendes cudgels us into submission. This isn't suspense, nor is it especially exciting. It's cacophony, pure and simple. Once again, we have an action sequence in a contemporary film that fakes its way through - driving the action NOT with dramatic beats, but with sledgehammer cuts inspired by explosive and/or grating, screeching sound. During the car chase sequence we never get a clean exterior shot of the car that Bond and Moneypenny are in. Mendes peppers the chase with closeups of things the car smashes into from interior POVs, but we never get a sense of the real danger, destruction and urgency. It's all bluster. So is the rest of the movie - boringly bombastic and no fun at all. Oh, and to all those who thought Javier Bardem was a great Bond villain - think again.

Where's the loo? I have the runs. So too will you.

The Woman in Black dir. James Watkins

Pitching the Turd: A widowed young 19th-century London`lawyer (Daniel "Harry Potter" Radcliffe) journeys to an isolated village to save his ailing career and settle an estate which, not surprisingly, bears a heavy curse that befalls anyone who spies the creepy title apparition within its borders. Our hero spends an inordinate amount of time in the crumbling Victorian manse, getting several up-close-and-personal ocular treats of the pseudo-J-Horror ghost and when he does, a child in the village dies. Though we can see this coming from a mile away, the movie pretends it's going to be a surprise that the lawyer's winsomely cute tyke will be visiting the countryside with his Nanny. Oops.

Catching the Turd: This lame attempt to rekindle the atmospheric glory of Hammer Horror films flops. Good intentions are not enough. Sometimes movies need something resembling a real filmmaker at the helm. Alas, this movie is rendered by a director with no discernible style who likes the idea of making a Hammer picture, but not, it seems, actually doing one. The results are dire. Instead of Christopher Lee ogling heaving bosoms, the movie serves up little more than Daniel Radcliffe porn.

I'm soooooooo serious, yes?

We Need To Talk About Kevin dir. Lynne Ramsay

Pitching the Turd: Lots of bopping around in time and space with dollops of obtuse dreams, a mire of precious imagery, confusing narrative details and oh-so earnest performances delivers a film about a psychotically dysfunctional family.

Catching the Turd: It's a cerebral, trick-pony approach to horrific events in a family's life that's not only disingenuous, but vaguely offensive - artistically and morally. Reprehensible "art" cinema for pseuds.

SKYFALL - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Daisy Chain o' Mother-Love from Sam "I'm from the thay-uh-tuh" Mendes

I dare you to not puke whilst imagining
Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem, Albert Finney and Judi Dench
locked in a daisy chain of triple penetration love.

Javier Bardem
has just sucked a palate-cleansing lemon
after an especially funky muff-dive on Judi Dench.

Skyfall (2012) dir. Sam Mendes *
Starring: Daniel Craig, Judi Dench, Javier Bardem, Albert Finney, Ralph Fiennes

Review By Greg Klymkiw


Skyfall stinks.

I'm not being a knee-jerk naysayer on this. I wanted very much to love (or at least enjoy) Skyfall in spite of the fact that Sam Mendes is one of the most criminally overrated filmmakers working in contemporary cinema. (I also think Craig's inaugural outing in Casino Royale was terrific all round.)

Surely, I thought, it couldn't be worse than Daniel Craig's second outing as 007. After all, Quantum of Solace (one of the stupidest movie titles of all time) was unconscionably dirge-like in its portentous, scattershot seriousness. As well, the picture was saddled with an incomprehensible muddle-puddle of a script that gorged itself on a surfeit of unfathomable expositional detail that served to explain nothing (at least not to the audience, but probably allowed its boneheaded makers to think they knew precisely what story they were telling).

The narrative landfill site purporting to be a screenplay egregiously drew far too much attention to the film's utter incompetence.

The added bonbons de merde included the following:

1. Horrendously directed action scenes.

2. A Bond girl infused with so much doom and gloom they might rather have cast Carol Burnett being force-fed a few bucket-loads of gin cocktails laced with a variety of benzodiazepines instead of Olga Kurylenko, one of the most beautiful women in the world and a decent actress to boot.

3. Poor Daniel Craig didn't appear to know what movie he was in. Then again, neither did we - save for the almost surgically-grafted dour expression of lemon-sucking on Craig's handsome face to tell us Bond was either in a foul mood and/or constipated.

Is Skyfall worse?

No, but it turns out that Craig's third go-round in the franchise is a mere pubic hair or two better than the woeful Marc Forster directed (if you can call it direction) Quantum of Bunged-Up Waste Matter.

The Sam Mendes abomination has an overall bludgeoning effect that gracelessly pummels its audience into submission which surely accounts (at least partially) for the rapturous reception it's received from both audiences and film reviewers. The other "accounting" for it's popularity is, sadly, of the "no accounting" for bad taste variety.

Mendes is not only an overrated director, he's a magician, though not the kind that creates screen magic, but the sort who truly bamboozles audiences (and, sadly, reviewers) into thinking he's good. He's a poseur of the highest order.

The flashy, fake razzle-dazzle he employed on American Beauty fooled many, but it didn't fool all of us. Whilst camera jockeying the Alan Ball screenplay, he successfully rendered kiddie porn disguised by Edward-Albee-Lite-decimating-the-suburbs. It fooled many, including a lot of people who really should know better.

Later, Mendes managed to bollox-up the fake Neo-noir of Road to Perdition so badly that even Paul Newman was boringly unable to pinch anything resembling a loaf. And please, don't get me started on the abominable Revolutionary Road wherein Mendes completely misread the great book it was based on, playing everything at a fake pitch of hysteria rather the the cold, truthful and devastating manner it should have been played at.

So here we've got a fake being handed the keys to the James Bond kingdom and he's predictably loused it up. The worst sin Mendes commits is not being able to direct action. He's so inept here, the producers might as well have doled out the reins to Blind Pew.

The first two minutes aren't bad.

Mendes cranks up his trademark pseudo-noir as Bond, silhouetted against the blazing sun of an open doorway, slowly enters a long hallway until a patch of light reveals Daniel Craig's baby blues. He discovers a colleague in peril and risks precious seconds of going-after-the-villain-time to tend to him.

And then, the picture goes to hell as Bond goes after the bad guy and we're treated to a Sam Mendes-styled impersonation of Paul Greengrass. The entire opening action sequence has little sense of spatial geography, far too many closeups, a ridiculous number of cuts and only a handful of wide shots to take in the action. Car chase, motorcycle chase, foot chase and finally, spectacular leaps onto the top of a moving train do little more than exhaust us. Mendes essentially cudgels us into submission.

This isn't suspense, nor is it especially exciting. It's cacophony, pure and simple. Once again, we have an action sequence in a contemporary film that fakes its way through - driving the action NOT with dramatic beats, but with sledgehammer cuts. None of them are especially elegant. Always the sign of a director who can't direct action, the cuts seem driven by explosive and/or grating, screeching sound.

During the car chase sequence we never get a clean exterior shot of the car that Bond and Moneypenny are in. (Yes, Moneypenny is a hot young operative in the field.) Mendes peppers the chase with closeups of things the car smashes into from interior POVs, but we never get a sense of the real danger, destruction and urgency.

It's all bluster.

If we must, let us compare this to the chase scenes in William Friedkin's The French Connection or Peter Yates's Bullitt which, as DRAMATIC sequences are imbued with a three-act structure, genuine ebbs and flows, plus, most importantly, a sense of the environment that the cars are careening through. The urgency is very real.

Not so in Skyfall. It's just a sloppy throw-as-much-shit-at-the-audience-and-see-if-anything-sticks hodgepodge rendering poor Roger Deakins's cinematography to little more than a patchwork quilt.

After seeing Skyfall, I randomly selected two Bond pictures from the "Golden Age". One was Diamonds Are Forever and the other was Live and Let Die. In the former I watched and marvelled at the skill and bravado during the spectacular car chase through downtown Las Vegas and in the latter, had to gasp for air several times during the utterly insane boat chase through Louisiana cracker country. Again, like Friedkin and Yates, the action sequences made perfect spatial sense, lots of breathtaking wide shots and ONLY punched in for medium and close shots when necessary to the story.

Alas, Mendes (like Marc Forster before him) is not only inept, but one senses an inherent sense of snobbery and/or slumming during all the action scenes. Only once does Mendes ALMOST get things right during a spectacularly choreographed hand-to-hand fight, gorgeously captured by the beleaguered Deakins in silhouette.

What does Mendes do? What any talentless man of the they-uh-tuhr might do when having to direct mere action scenes. He ends it too quickly for more sloppy closeups, herky-jerky movement and wham-bam-thank-you-m'am cutting for the ADHD-afflicted.

Mendes isn't interested in action. He's more interested in the pseudo-Freudian implications of the tale. The villain, played mincingly, prancingly and annoyingly by he of the bad hair, Javier Bardem, is a former MI6 agent gone rogue and looking to get revenge upon M (Judi Dench) for abandoning him during an operation gone awry. Bond too has similar issues with M. He believes she sacrificed him during the climax of the opening action scene.

And here's the rub, both Bond and Bardem, it turns out, are… wait for it… are you seated?

They're both fucking orphans and M is their surrogate Mummy-kins who betrayed both of them. Oh, they're so sensitive, such delicate "New Men" are these paragons of anti-macho-hood.

Basically, they're big sissy whiny-pants.

The movie is replete with gorgeous Bond girls, but Mendes lavishes his real attention upon Judi Dench.

Judi Dench???

Fine actress, but I'm sorry, she's, uh, old. And worst of all, M is ultimately a crusty twixt the thighs buzzard - a pursed-lipped dowager.

Whom does Bond really want to fuck in this movie? Well, as he seems to show only a passing interest in the ladies, it seems that ideally he'd be well suited to a bit of corn-hole frolics with Javier Bardem (and vice-versa), but what the entire movie seems to boil down to is this:

Bond and Bardem might WANT to fuck each other, but what they really desire is to fuck their mother - M, the oldest Bond Girl in recorded history. In fact, if they weren't on such opposite ends of the law, they might even be suited to some double-penetration action with Dame Judi.

Does this not sicken you?

In the least?

Well, if that didn't quite do it, how about the interminable climax in Scotland with Albert Finney chewing up the scenery as Kincade the Groundskeeper of Bond's family estate Skyfall?

The movie stoops so low as to have Finney blow apart a few bad guys with his trusty hunting rifle and utter, with a chortle and a gruff brogue, no less: "Welcome to Scotland!"

At this point, the even more sickening image of Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem AND Albert Finney drilling Judi Dench's primary orifices of love began to creep into my brain and I gave up. Only Sam Mendes is capable of putting such dirty pictures in my brain. I almost want to applaud him, but think better upon it as I reach for a paper bag to wretch into.

I think, after seeing Skyfall, I shall never again be the same.

Thanks, Sam!

"Skyfall" is in wide release world wide from Sony Pictures.