Fred Colton and Underdaddy combine their keen insights into a predictive machine to give a pre-review, sight unseen, of the new James Bond flick Spectre. You will be amazed at their eerie psychic powers.
How can you write a review of something you haven’t seen yet? Well for starters, this is Bond #24. And when you’ve taken a ride twenty-three times you start to have a good idea where it’s going. So based on the trailer alone, here’s what we exspectre to happen in Spectre.
All right, so curtains up and we start with a bang. We see Bond calmly approach and attempt to reason with a terrorist in Mexico City. A virtuoso scene somewhat deflated by hamfisted foreshadowing; it takes place during the Day of the Dead parade. So now we know that Bond’s reasonable logic will be lost in the din of the crowd, resulting in a misunderstanding that sees the terrorist fleeing from Bond and straight into a grisly death in rush-hour traffic. Now he will never be able to find the churro hut. Daniel Craig might have brought us a grittier, more realistic Bond, but his Bond movies are still predictable as the sunrise. At least we know there will be more action, so let’s suspend our disbelief and float down a non-stop river of it.
But then a lot of non-action ensues. Bond returns home to a mound of credit card debt due to his penchant for tightly-fitted Saville Row suits. A friend spots Bond out shopping for Omega watches and asks him if he’s aware that he is a mid-level government employee and not, in fact, a wealthy man. In return, Bond screams “WHAT!?” It turns out Bond is hard of hearing due to decades of standing just to the left of big explosions. To make matters worse, he’s very bad at lip-reading. To make matters even worser, it’s revealed that Bond has been blowing off scheduled lip-reading lessons in order to go on more missions, where he stands next to even more explosions with one hand in his pocket.
We see the pain that has shaped and warped Bond’s psyche as he’s savagely heckled by his MI6 coworkers for dressing like a Neil Patrick Harris sitcom character. The series gets its first F-bomb as a coworker jeers, “Bond, you know we can wear a fucking hoodie to the office, right?” The movie also features a dazzling bit of spycraft as Bond slips into Google’s Incognito Mode to look up STD symptoms on WebMD. His eyebrows come together at a suspicious angle as he notices that Google still somehow knows to serve him ads for Viagra and KY-Jelly. Then he clicks on the Viagra one. This is a realistic Bond film after all, featuring a Bond who is 47 years old and has trouble maintaining an erection.
Later on Bond has a professional, asexual performance review with G (short for Gertrude), his appropriately-dressed superior and she lectures him (again) on murdering people during parades. He nods to be polite but inwardly he’s trying to reconcile how to order Viagra online anonymously while simultaneously entering a shipping address.
Then G sends Bond on Spectre’s central mission: to find a nefarious group of disaffected foreign nationals and again attempt to calmly reason with them. They’re devilishly hard to locate, Gertrude says, because they use Google Incognito when online. Bond says hey that’s cool I can just go chase some people and probably just discharge my weapon a few times into a crowd to let them know I have top secret clearance so they can totally stop and have a one-on-one conversation with me. Sort of a Morse code in the espionage world. G greenlights the plan, calling it quite reasonable, and sends Bond down to the lab to procure a vehicle that will help him blend in while abroad. Said vehicle turns out to be a silver $4 million Aston Martin that the manufacturer only made ten of. The admittedly tortured logic behind this is that MI6 is big into reverse psychology; they reason that making their spies so ultra-conspicuous will prove that they’re definitely not spies, since spies aren’t flashy. Bond barely blinks at the car; the entire movie he’s just been thinking about his dick and his Viagra problem.
But before Bond can leave London, Spectre hits us with a plot twist. Bond gets another realistic crisis to handle – this time involving his dating life. Turns out the eHarmony girl he invited to dinner at Texas de Brazil (and who he’s been sending flaccid dick pics to, promising that “like me, it rises to the occasion”) has shown him complete disregard and is planning to expose his erectile dysfunction to the world via Twitter.
This is when we knew that Spectre was a smart, realistic Bond film that knows what year it’s set in. Bond chases the woman in his $4 million Aston Martin and eventually, when the wheel bearings give out from abuse, he jumps out to pursue her on foot. She is typing sloppily on her Samsung Galaxy (from all the parkour) and hashtags something about Emotive Compunction which confuses the shit out of the three followers who actually noticed her tweet. One retweets anyway because it sounds smart.
Then the plot twists again as we smash cut to black. When we fade back in we find James awakening on a hospital gurney. The doctor calmly informs him that he has suffered a massive heart attack. Via a flashback we discover that during Bond’s last performance review, G tried to address his frequent, unsolicited advances towards anything with a vagina. His blood pressure spiked and jolted loose a clot which subsequently lodged in his brain and created a reduced oxygen scenario which induced vivid hallucinations. The flashback also gives us the first shit joke in the 007 canon, revealing that our suave protagonist actually just relieved himself in his tight suit pants while pointing at G and saying “spread some mayonnaise on it”.
The movie wraps with Bond getting a mostly positive report from his cardiologist and the chick from E-harmony showing up at the hospital. Classic 007 move because it ends on suspense. This mystery girl had a photo that suggested she was a solid eight but in reality she is a high five, MAYBE a low six with bridesmaid’s makeup on. Craig’s face perfectly captures the sinking feeling of a man who knows he now has to blow a couple hundred bucks on margaritas at Texas de Brazil with a “practice girl,” as the rakes call them. (It’s like these movies write themselves.) The credits roll to the Notorious B.I.G. rapping. “It was all a dream!” All in all, we really (think) that we dug Spectre. A gritty, brave, realistic film that showed us that, just like the average man, Bond also deals with the horrors of social media, crazy women, and deflated dicks.
So concludes our Spectre-lative review of Spectre. How’d we do?
We know, we know. It’s like we have crystal ball.