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Often the formula continued to pay off. The precredit sequence almost always packed more gasps, laughs and subplots into six minutes than most movies do in 60. It also meant that conventions established in the early films ran the risk of calcifying in the later ones. Plenty of cleavage, but no nudity. Innuendos but no dirty words. Most important, a dogged adherence to old-fashioned storytelling -- which, in an industry that has thrown narrative logic outuendo, can make an 007 film seem slow moving. But Bonds were never aimed at the thrills-above-all youth market. Or even, primarily, to the U.S. (where, by the way, each new Bond film is consistently among its year's Top Ten box- office winners). The series has a broader goal: to be the last of that fine old breed of movies that can offer something for everybody, adults as well as kids, in Europe, Asia and South America.
Besides, like any clever agent, Bond could adapt to the Zeitgeist. With an eye toward detente, he found villains in rogue warriors, not cold warriors. Indeed, in A View to a Kill, "Comrade Bond" is awarded the Order of Lenin. One of these days, he might even get a citation from Ms. magazine. The male chauvinist piggy is still susceptible to European beauties of no fixed abode or accent, but now he relies on their intelligence and independence. They can fight manfully; he can fall in love.
These changes in Bond films had more to do with keeping the series fresh than with the new actors who slipped into his Savile Row suits. When Connery tired of the role -- and it showed -- Broccoli cast George Lazenby in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Bond became a husband and a widower in that one, but it was Lazenby who disappeared as Connery returned for one more film. Then Roger Moore took over for seven episodes. Amiable and reliable, he nonetheless walked through his part like a waxwork on casters and left the heavy jobs to his stunt doubles. The series aged with him; it was in danger of becoming a travelogue with a smirk. Perhaps 007 was finally ready for his pension.
But wait! It's Indiana James to the rescue! In Timothy Dalton's interpretation in The Living Daylights, one finds some of the lethal charm of Sean Connery, along with a touch of crabby Harrison Ford. This Bond is as fast on his feet as with his wits; an ironic scowl creases his face; he's battle ready yet war-weary. And in the age of AIDS, even Bond must bend to serial monogamy; this time, for reasons of plot and propriety, he's a one-gal guy. Dalton performed a lot of his own stunts, and he looks great in a tuxedo -- especially the one with the Velcro lapels that fold over to give him the guise of a priest-assassin.
Happily, the series has revived itself to welcome Dalton. It opens with the moral dilemma that Full Metal Jacket took nearly two hours to waddle up to: whether a good soldier must kill a pretty young sniper (the unenticing Maryam d'Abo). Then it's off to Vienna, London, Tangier and Afghanistan -- the usual guided tour of In spots and hot spots, with a politically savvy cast of , adversaries. An honorable KGB boss and a duplicitous KGB agent. Afghan freedom fighters who push opium on the side. A renegade arms dealer who may remind you of General Secord's friend Edwin Wilson. And 007 in the middle, juggling global juggernauts like Ollie North, but with less piety and more smarts.