Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Q. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Q, he called himself Q. Now, Q— he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
The James Bond film name is a bizarre thing. It’s as reliable in form as it is unreliable in content. A new bond film comes out every few years like clockwork. The James Bond film franchise is older and more structurally sound than most sub-Saharan African countries, and yet everyone is surprised when a new one is announced. If there’s one certainty in life, it’s that someone, somewhere, is going to make another Bond movie.
There’s always these evil overlord villains and their henchmen doing all these crazy stunts and holding everyone for ransom and whatnot. Nowadays, your average douchebag with a GoPro camera and a spare snowmobile beats anything Ian Fleming’s got.
I have no idea how to portray a Bond villain to a contemporary audience — one that lives in a world where Vladimir Putin runs Russia, and got elected. I guess a contemporary villain would throw recyclable plastic into a regular trash can, or pour his waste motor oil into a storm drain, or maybe buy a puppy at a regular pet store instead of rescuing some neurotic greyhound left over from the track.
But drive a snowmobile off a cliff and parachute away? Hell, that’s just regular folks.