In my childhood, I was a fan of the admittedly and deliberately masculine and borderline psychotic James Bond as penned by Ian Fleming and the similarly-scripted character placed in far more absurd situations on the silver screen. When Fleming passed, the authors who tried to carry his torch failed to hold my attention, but the movies did a reasonably enjoyable, if somewhat incoherent, job of keeping the flame alive. I was initially a fan of the reboot; Casino Royale was excellently amoral. Later movies did not live up to the initial promise, but remained entertaining, even as the actor's anti-gun BS dampened any enthusiasm I might have felt for the franchise.
But with the above, I think I'm done. A Bond tied down and nagged to death by a girlfriend (and remember, in-canon, the foundation for his inability to commit is the death of his wife!), surrounded by anti-smoking messages and friends nagging him about not being gay-friendly enough, is not a Bond that can express the things that fans want him to express so that they can, vicariously, share the experience through fantasy. Or to put it another way, a henpecked Bond is not a fun Bond.
When this stunning bit of social-justice-warrior entryism fails to keep fans who have followed the franchise for decades coming back to see and read the latest adventures of the pathetic pussy-whipped ex-icon, they'll probably claim the character was old, outdated, out of touch, and that modern people just aren't interested anymore.
This entry was published Tue Sep 29 09:28:19 CDT 2015 by TriggerFinger
and last updated 2015-09-29 09:28:19.0.