Vaguely on the Bond tip: Alex, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the pain in Kevin Smith’s revisionist ass that was his Superman. The project is dead precisely because he tried to restore the comic’s overhauled depth and madness to film franchise. Movies don’t care about comic books, or source material as it were. They have no interest in installments.
If you want a graphic-novel-cum-motion-picture, kids, you’ll have to make one yourselves. Ask the Wachowski brothers. Speaking of the Matrix and a black Bond–it seems in the first sequel Mobius discovers a colony of black actors. I’m paraphrasing the actual plot, but Jada Pinkett, Harry Lennix, Aaliyah, and Harold Perrineau? I’m kinda high just thinking about it. As for a black Bond, it all reminds me of the likely-to-go-unfulfilled promise Gus Van Sant made when his savagely cool Psycho came out three years ago. Back then he said he wanted to make a black Psycho and a gay Psycho and a Stepford Psycho. And in that moment he seemed supremely interested in going all art-school on myth, legends, and classic texts like he was the Warholic he used to be. Kitsch meets Film Comment ideology. Can you do the same with Bond–disrobe him, reconstitute him, intentionally miscontextualize him to make a point?
It’s kind of redundant, frankly; we already have John Shaft, a flawed, complex 007 cousin. In addition to the propagation that he had an auxiliary, ahem, golden gun, he was the ghetto Bond–down for the struggle, always taking a moment to go for a little sexual healing. Shaft was problematized in a way that the white, wealthy, government-sanctioned James Bond couldn’t be. The original John Shaft wandered into last summer’s John Singleton update, but the movie has lost the social urgency of the first two Shaft flicks. With his Armani get-ups and topiary facial hair, Samuel L. Jackson may as well have been playing a post-Brosnan Bond. Save for the fact that he was only talking about it being his “duty to please that bootie.”
Whether this is a redundancy or not, I’d pay to see a gay Bond. At some point Rupert Everett was rumored to be Her Majesty’s best friend. What happened? That’s territory in which the possibilities seem particularly boundless–if not a little repetitive: Is it me, or did all the post-Connery Bonds seem gay. Maybe that’s a Bondian irony. I’m sure there’s an aficionado out there who can list the 007’s-a-homo jokes buried in the movies. Regardless, Cuba’s all wrong. His exuberance is like Marlon Brando’s girth–where’s he gonna put it?
Seeing how this will be my final “Table” post, I just want to say thanks for helping make the meals so provocative. I’m a little sad we never really had that Dave Eggers conversation. But I’m leaving with a ton to think about. We were a little hard on ourselves regarding our jobs. The three of us are well under 30. What’s at the root of all this malaise? Contrary to what Alex might say in jest, I don’t have a Tyler Durden when it comes to advertising, consumerism, etc. If Slate is nice enough, maybe they’ll let us come back and lighten up. Otherwise I’ll be IM-ing you guys as normal.
Wesley
