I’ve been pondering my fascination with James Bond. No other gentleman has swept me away with his debonair ways—from my adolescence through the course of my 50-something years.
There was Bond’s Connery avatar. He had dimples. Within a few minutes of hearing his voice, I was intoxicated. I liked Roger Moore too although by the time he played Bond in “For Your Eyes Only,” I felt he needed to retire and stay home—with his wife only.
Even though Pierce Brosnan didn’t seem as surefooted and gritty as Connery, he seemed to know his way around Scotland Yard. And he did it with a certain Wall Street gravitas. I loved the way he dusted off his suit after chucking his irksome villain into a nasty printing press. I remember him looking at the audience, right after, and saying: “They'll print anything these days.”
The only Bond I would never ever have shared even the smallest dinghy with was Timothy Dalton. I felt Dalton was good enough merely to count change; he should have been recast as a secretary to Moneypenny.
This brings me to our current Bond, Daniel Craig, who is, by far, the most athletic of them all. He leaves women wanting more and panting for more. He flies between imploding buildings in disturbingly tight Italian suits. The cameras seem to like his rear. I do too.
When he veers into the Austrian wilderness in his latest hottest wheels, I’m there with him, my hand on his six-pack. When I watch him muck around with Q’s gadgets, once again, I’m to his right, forever his very own faithful “K.”
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