Martin Campbell
Casino Royale

James Bond

Casino Royale 2006

A Reflection. (And A Vision)

“Shaken, not stirred”.

The profound existential drama of bartenders around the world, mixed in Ian Fleming's novels, was concentrated on this simple formula, on that thin borderline between an algebraically mixed drink and one only accidentally shaken. In those sinuous tentacles of Ginger Ale that were inevitably severed before copulating with those famished bubbly Vermouth Dry. In that perfect moment, of geometric agitation. That performance anxiety and that sleight of hand vanished when a young Bond, in the 2006 cinematic revisit of Casino Royale, replied simply to the young bartender and his anxious question – Mr Bond, shaken not stirred, ok? - "I don't give a damn." And a moment later it was liberation from that very uncomfortable perch of Shaken, not stirred. Except to fall back into terror when Bond inspired by his beloved companion Vesper Lynd decides to name Vesper Martini his favorite cocktail. And so the bartender's woes returned from the salary side of the counter, in the name of flirts between British secret agents and that shiny Aston Martin DB5 parked in double file. With tension climbing once again, like that sensation that something explosive was happening once more. That evening no usual local bosses were nearby, the atmosphere was much more international, sitting across from each other at that green table at the Casino Royale in Montenegro, the duel to the last card intensified between an MI6 secret agent licensed to kill and Le Chiffre, the infamous villain and international hitman for hire. You took an online bartending course but didn’t even finish it, swiped your card to get a diploma, somehow landed a job at the Montenegro casino cradle of international malaise and unruly entrepreneurs from the east. On your first day at work, a 00-profile British secret service agent with a license to kill lands on your bar, in formal tuxedo with a drop of blood on his white collar: in the basement of the salon, he has just gutted two Mexican killers. He has the furious look of a she-wolf whose cubs were just stolen. Le Chiffre/Mads Mikkelsen, Albanian banker, and anarcho-capitalist gambler, is exhausting and ridiculing him at the green table. He has little time to find a lifeline and, as often happens in these cases, looks to alcohol for the key to turn the match around, ordering you imperatively like in a firing squad:

“A dry martini in a deep champagne goblet.”
“Oui, monsieur.” - You answer - And what the hell alternatives do you have -
“Just a moment. - Bond pauses. (Note from now must pass 2 seconds) - Three measures of Gordon’s Gin, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet Blanc. Shake it very well until it’s ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Done?”

(Note the time between lemon and - Done? - should be within 2 seconds).

Life is Hard, No Time to Die, Live and let Die and a View To A Kill.

It should be noted to avoid acute disputes that Kina Lillet has been out of production for years. Indeed, for the composition of the Vesper Martini over time, this liqueur has been replaced by the less aromatic but more intense Lillet Blanc. According to critics, Daniel Craig in the film drank a Vesper Martini 7 times. The beautiful Vesper, played in the film by Eva Green, appears for the first time in Ian Fleming’s 1953 novel Casino Royale. The writer seems to have been inspired by the real-life secret agent Christine Granville. Instead, in the first 1967 Casino Royale film, the role is interpreted by the legendary Ursula Andress, it is not a coincidence that the two actresses in different historical phases are placed in the Olympus of Bond girls. Thus, also creating slight temporal confusion, Fleming’s first novel with a literary character yet to be well defined and raw Bondian material, is offered again in a cinematic key in 2006, after already feeding all the gigantism of the Saga to the celluloid imagination, the indispensable style of Sean ‘God’ Connery, the extravagant humor of Moore and the stylized movements of Dalton. Watching Casino Royale from the opening frames, in the famous b/w intro, one immediately sees an anachronistic rereading of the dimension of Myth and impact on the collective imagination. Like tracing à rebours the proud origins of the Saga, that virile vision of the spy in a tuxedo who always walked from right to left in the opening credits (note) then reached the center and what else could he do but shoot towards the center (strange!). Attention the view is not ours – but never – but it is from the gun barrel and gradually the image starts to color red, the opening scene will be called Gunbarrel.

The Great Reset

But for those interested in geopolitics (I prefer for instance the bubbles of a 2009 vintage Bollinger) it is advised to meticulously follow the footprints of smoke signals the Bond films have always dissipated and ahead of time, most notably with this movie. From the initial 90s crisis due to the fall of the wall and the end of the cold war, underlining themes of Connery and Moore’s movies, it shifted after September 11, 2001, to redefine celluloid super-heroism and Ramboism by reshaping maps. With the transformation of a hero who must heal the wounds within himself before changing the world. In self-analysis that doesn’t see the enemy only in the other or Ivan Drago, the production reevaluated the works on James Bond appreciating the intimate cut and this opening to a non-monolithic vision of reality. Bond isn’t just an image on a screen, he’s tokenized in each of us, as a true reference subject and expressive totem of forged images. Like a merman when biceps rise in the sun he emerges from the sea foam, for the deceased memories of Ursula Andress in a bikini or the assertive Halle Berry. To Casino Royale we give five balls because in the contrasting reading of the classic character, the Non Bond is credible, broken the spell of deceit the hero fights not for a better future, but so that the present is preserved in the future. And that simulated break of the archaic pattern – everything must change so everything stays the same – is fueled by the archetype of Fleming’s first writing, revitalizing that pattern contextualizing into parody. Daniel Craig and his cycle are the reproduction of Hector not Achilles, inside his armor we don’t have the usual load of Hybris but a body torn by the fight and bruised, weary from chasing the parkour myth of Sebastien Foucan and overwhelmed by a physical power for the first time superior.

Bond loves Vesper, and already this is shocking news, but seeing him hugged with her in the shower dressed and crying, is a truly low blow for those born with the Wagnerian imagery and those greedy tentacles grabbing onto the frail perfect backs of Bond Girls. Then that love will be fleeting, perhaps only an illusion, and that doubt will linger even when watching the sequel Quantum of Solace, (and rewatching Casino Royale...), failing to completely unravel the enigmatic character of Vesper Lynd. Towards the film's end, what sense does it make to see Craig naked and whipped in the genitals by Le Chiffre, in a sort of corporal punishment to the ancient impetus for action?

(Mad) J. Bond (Thunderdome)?

But parallel to the unforgiving age, with the aforementioned global and geopolitical complexities that might also anticipate new eras of disintegration and decadence, could we envisage a troisième âge for our hero? Adele’s song Skyfall lyrics possibly reveal new scenarios, unusual and mysterious. To give an idea, creating a new paradigm, the Mad Max Model, the parabola of the perfect secret agent like the perfect cop becoming a road warrior in that new post-apocalyptic setting. But with something different, even a new physique, something genetically wild because Bond will always be Bond.

A more crazy character, more adrift and with no more dreams to ponder.

Slightly Freak, brutally Sexy, yet immersed in ruby-red rivers of 1947 Mouton Rothschild.

Always with some strange jingle in his head, a relic of a glorious past, like when hailing a cab asking to follow that parachute.

The Alpha male that doesn’t collapse, but continues to stagger...

Something of the more wayward Mickey Rourke, something of the more consumed Marlon Brando.

The lands, the sea, civilization, History, in short, all the Beauty retreated to Reserves.

Puro consumer object, here’s the novelty, if needed also road-wise, for milfs and ex-Bond girls fallen from the heights of stars, once worshiped by the Sun and the Gods.

Then gently landed on snowy peaks, after brushing the slopes of daring peaks and caressing white caps.

Until they unravel on dark passages gutting the mountains, riding viaducts and golden stretches with serene sway.

And finally boldly plummeting on crevices of suggestive cliffs and joyful shores, that embrace the water.

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the Earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end
I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue,