James Bond<\/a><\/strong> as two hours of outrageously deliberate and wittily absurd… what\u2019s the word? Entertainment.<\/p>\nSeldom in the history of the modern cinema can so many clich\u00e9s have been pressed into such active service with so few yawns; and the reason is clear enough.<\/p>\n
Every now and again the narrative insists on gently sending itself up, as if assuring us that the film is perfectly aware of its fundamental absurdity but anxious that we should share the joke on terms of mutual one-upmanship. It\u2019s a sort of Brecht\u2019s alienation effect. We are not supposed to get too absorbed.<\/p>\n
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It is important, however, that the players themselves should not betray by so much as a glint in the eye the farcical nature of their work. It is equally important that the dimension of self-mockery should not become obsessive, or the joke soon grows tiresome.<\/p>\n
And it must be admitted that Goldfinger goes too far in this respect by laying its cards on the table from the start with an uproarious, pre-credits sequence of assiduously satirical Bondmanship: Bond emerging with unruffled elegance from an extremely violent, bullet-sprayed brawl; Bond perceiving in the eye of a naked woman the reflection of a would-be assailant; a fight which ends with the colourful electrocution of an intruder in a bath into which Bond casually hurls an electric fire.<\/p>\n
As an epitome of 007\u2019s way of life all this is disarming enough; it makes an admirably instructive preface. But does the spectator any longer require advice on how to view the slickest spy in all the world? Or doesn\u2019t it matter how far the fooling goes, so long as it is plainly fooling?<\/p>\n
Well, addicts of a drug need increased doses to obtain the same effect; and who shall say that Bond\u2019s adventures are not an opiate of the people?<\/p>\n
With Ian Fleming\u2019s hero we can escape into a super-cynical world of tough and materialistic romanticism: not identifying ourselves too closely with this intrepid and resourceful fellow for whom women and planes and evil bigwigs lie patiently in wait; but fellow-travelling with Mittyish pleasure and thanking our stars that we are not required to meet sinister Koreans with lethal hats at whose flinging all the world had better duck.<\/p>\n
Slickness is everything. Consider an early gambit. Goldfinger, a rotund, international glutton for gold, is winning at cards on Miami beach. His gorgeous secretary (Shirley Eaton of the golden ads) trains a telescope on his opponent\u2019s hand from a hotel room; and what she sees she radios back to her employer, through his apparent deaf aid.<\/p>\n
Bond having libidinously interrupted her vigil, she is later found dead, all painted in gold. Her skin, it seems, couldn\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\n
Kinky? Well, a theme song refers to the cold finger of Goldfinger, and the mood is nothing if not flip and frosty; you can scent the appeal for cultists.<\/p>\n
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A