Time is a spiteful construct, and the past has a cunning way of catching up to you, in more ways than one.
Though it’s not without its shortcomings, Daniel Craig’s tenure, spanning from 2006 to 2021 with five movies now, as the suave, martini-slinging agent of MI6 has been quite remarkable, generating Earth-shattering entries in the espionage movie pantheon like Casino Royale and Skyfall that substantially compensated for its more vanilla efforts Quantum of Solace and Spectre. Suffused throughout its ebbs and flows, however, remained one incredibly laudable element: the compelling humanization of James Bond, no longer an outdated piece of British iconography but a damaged soul grappling with his own complicated, fractured morality.
This paramount portrayal incinerated the condoning depictions of a cheeky womanizer; all that remained in the ashes was a more nuanced portrait of a man caught in the crossfires of his own mistakes and atonement, its thematic conviction piercing with the same intensity as Craig’s signature blue eyes. Gritty and haunting, this revision was certainly groundbreaking, even innovating further by establishing overarching continuity among the five films.
However, these conceits are occasionally strained in the highly repetitive, though ultimately resonant, swan song for Craig’s 007 rendition: the grand finale (all exhaustive 143 minutes of it) No Time to Die.
The past always seems to demand retribution. Following the seismic events of 2015’s entry, Bond is now retired in secluded Jamaica, having ended his fervent romance with Madeline Swann (Lea Seydoux) over concerns of betrayal when their sultry Mediterranean getaway was ambushed by splinter assassins of the nefarious terrorist organization Spectre. Five years into this solitude, he is implored by CIA ally Felix Leiter (Jeffrey Wright) to investigate the breadcrumbs suspiciously strewn by remnants of old enemies.
Alhough Cary Joji Fukunaga’s direction is palpably slick throughout, he seems to run the gamut of his most inspired aesthetic tricks before the plot even comes into fruition, indicating a broader drying well of ideas that also undermines the film’s dramatic momentum. A visceral, one-take stairwell brawl late in the third act, though exquisitely lensed by DP Linus Sandgren, particularly feels derivative of other white-knuckle pictures like Atomic Blonde.
Nothing else is quite as potent as the film’s pulse-pounding opening action sequence that culminates in Bond’s cornered, stationary vehicle being battered by his assailant’s kinetic bullets, its stark use of contrasting movement underscoring the residual effects of a traumatic history determined to exact its revenge. Congruent with its storytelling, any such ingenuity only occurs in exhilarating spurts, pinning its strong core down with excess weight.
No Time to Die nobly attempts to wax poetic, but it occasionally lacks the vital cinematic syntax to do so successfully, like the gin in Bond’s trademark beverage was replaced with club soda. It’s satiable, the beloved staples of this franchise capably executed, yet tenuously lacks those top-shelf ingredients, Bond’s inevitable reunion with Swann – and the rich twists that entails – withstanding.
For such a landmark advancement of the character, the inherent limitations of it that began to manifest in Spectre seep through the cracks here, rehashing several key ideas that simply feel redundant, even carrying over the same inertia in Christoph Waltz’s uninspired scenes where he reprises his generic take on Blofeld. Fukunaga straddles muscular style and poignant emotional accents with great aplomb, but his approach to tone is imprecise, occupying a cumbersome space between the campy and the somber, unable to settle on homage or the pre-established tone of the Craig era. The plot’s central McGuffin of a pulpy bio-weapon is the initial culprit.
A profusely overwhelming obligation to resolve this iteration’s plot points stifles actual substance, or perhaps conceals the lack thereof, and in tandem with Skyfall’s definitive thesis and sense of finality, this plodding, cluttered narrative widens those prevailing fissures without consistently filling its trenches with fresh insights. It’s oddly slavish and eerily emulates table setting for meals we’ve already had before. These Casino Royale leftovers are a bit stale, and a dash of Rami Malek as the main villain isn’t entirely conducive when his arc is simply a vessel for routine third act machinations and his character renders a superficial composite of its predecessors, a mere afterthought.
Nonetheless, when this film does march to the beat of its own drum, a divine cadence that Fukunaga and company, including screenwriter Phoebe Waller-Bridge (of Killing Eve and Fleabag fame), compose on their own terms, it’s admittingly thrilling and percussive.
Ana de Armas, in exceedingly sparse screen time and presumably augmented by Waller-Bridge’s robust talent, revolutionizes the tired “Bond girl” archetype with a scintillating blend of giddy effervescence and towering presence. Lashana Lynch, as the new idealistic MI6 agent who usurps the 007 title in Bond’s absence, is absolutely gripping, bolstered by dynamic characterization. Both actresses and characters even exude more cohesive pathos in their secondary roles than the film in its totality.
Bond’s respective arc, additionally, catapults him into a satisfying coda, regardless of the film’s issues. Some beats are indubitably retreads, but this film astutely places him in a place of personal tranquility amidst his turmoil and adversity, rather than contrive conclusive or neat answers into existence. It’s intrinsically messy and achingly human, especially for such a grandiose character, and Craig remains riveting in one of his most textured, faceted turns.
The past delivers Bond his comeuppance in multiple ways. Its depleting flow of ideas often counteract the seldom new ones, but within these diminishing returns yields stirring catharsis. By the sought-after conclusion, it strums some fulfilling grace notes on this franchise’s rugged strings, sensitively marrying the mythology of Britain’s finest with actual flesh, bone and, most resoundingly, an earnestly beating heart.
Grade: B-
No Time to Die is now available in theaters.
Photo Credit / MGM
