TODAY'S AS GOOD A DAY AS ANY
by Ed Owens

If admitting a problem is the first step to beating addiction, then consider this my therapy: Totino's frozen pizzas are the best thing to come along since the spork, high praise indeed given that the very concept of frozen pizzas is an iffy proposition at best. For one thing, frozen pizzas have yet to rival the tasty goodness of their fresh-baked counterparts, the claims of a certain company (who shall remain nameless because I don't want DiGiorno's to be embarrassed) notwithstanding. With all of society's technological advances, from self-cleaning ovens and loose-fit pleated khakis to fondue forks and the looming promise of a 3 GHz P4, capturing that made-from-scratch taste in a frozen pizza has continued to elude us. Size is also a problem. Finding the right size frozen pizza can be more difficult than buying clothes for an in-law (let me take this opportunity to warn you, dear reader, against ever taking it upon yourself to buy clothes for an in-law...the Capulet/Montague rift pales in comparison to the bitter family feuds which will inevitably ensue). In this regard, Totino's is certainly the one to beat--big enough to satisfy the craving, yet small enough to not go to waste. Needless to say, my obsession with Totino's has become a bit of a running joke among friends and family members.

Of course, cooking one is not without its hazards. Late night chefs in my house have two options when confronted with the daunting task of moving a hot pan from the stove to the countertop. One is a full-fledged oven mitt in the form of a cow wearing an apron with the motto, "Born to Grill" emblazoned across the front. The other (or others, I should say, given the overwhelming multitudes that can be seen all around the kitchen) is a charming little crocheted number that could easily be passed off as a family heirloom to unsuspecting guests in the home. While the home-spun charm of the latter is unquestionable, it's usefulness as a barrier against third degree burns is still in question. I have lost feeling in my fingers (along with the pizza in transport) on no fewer than three occasions while using these epitomes of form over function. The fact that I continue to use the things after so many mishaps places me somewhere between early primates and my four-year old son on the evolutionary scale of things.

Perhaps that explains my dogged loyalty to the Bond series--regardless of how much I hated the last one, I'm still there opening day for each new film. So it was that I found myself in a darkened theater late Friday afternoon, struggling with an odd mixture of excitement and apprehension. Would Die Another Day, the 21st Bond film (counting Never Say Never Again purely for argument's sake) and 4th featuring Pierce Brosnan, be the reaffirmation my faith so desperately needed, or another nail in the coffin of the once great secret agent? The answer, oddly enough is neither...and both.

The good news is that the first half of Die Another Day is more Bond-like in its affectation than the past five films combined. It's not the opening sequence (a rather silly bit of nonsense involving a group of speeding hovercrafts and a particularly inept North Korean named Colonel Zao) or the theme song (a horrific, syncopated, techno-fest from Madonna that could easily replace Ceti eels as a torture device), but the situations themselves. Having been betrayed in North Korea, Bond sets out to uncover the traitor's identity, using all of the resources at his disposal (but none of the gadgets, having been effectively disowned by his own MI6).

There are some fine moments here--Halle Berry's Jinx walking out of the water in Cuba, Bond fencing with eccentric gazillionaire Gustav Graves in a London club)--that just felt right...almost. Brosnan and Berry both struggle with their initial exchange, managing to strike all the wrong notes while delivering dialogue that would have made mere mortals cringe onscreen, and Madonna's cameo, while not as painful as her opening theme song, leaves you wondering why they even bothered. But even with such missteps, the film manages to capture at least some small measure of the things that had made me a Bond fan in the first place.

Then the film takes a wrong turn at Albequerque.

The bad news is the entire second half of the film, a series of ill-conceived plot twists in service to some of the most absurdly excessive stunt scenes since Moonraker. Adding insult to injury is the sudden appearance of trendy camera work (rapid swish pans that go from fast to slow to regular motion) accompanied by some of the most appalling CGI since the literal and figurative car wreck of Along Came A Spider (also directed by new Bond helmer Lee Tamahori). The Bond series has always relied on suspension of disbelief, but Die Another Day's not even in the same hemisphere. The filmmakers' intent seems to be the reinvention of Bond as XXX, and to some extent, they succeed, but doing so comes at too high a price, at least for this fan. Berry's initially strong character is eventually (and seemingly inevitably) reduced to the role of damsel in distress (an error the film tries poorly to counter in the overlong and overblown climax) and the once formidable Zao becomes little more than a cartoonish caricature, effectively unraveling everything the film had done right in its first half.

MGM clearly doesn't know what to do with Brosnan. Connery had perhaps the easiest time becoming Bond because there was nothing to compare him against; Lazenby softened the edges a bit, but maintained the offhanded cruelty that Connery had developed; Moore flirted with self-parody for a few films before just giving in completely, turning the entire franchise into an overwrought in-joke; and Dalton's "play it straight" approach found few fans accustomed to a lighter, cheesier secret agent. The Brosnan films have consistently struggled with finding the right balance between joking self-awareness and straight-laced espionage, failing equally at both. Die Another Day's schizophrenic approach, with its low-key first half and its overwrought second, is the perfect example, showcasing the best--and worst--of both worlds. Unfortunately, what's left when the credits finally (and thankfully) roll is the bitter taste of a fine meal ruined. Only time will tell if this is the time I finally learn my lesson.

At least I still have Totino's.

©2002 Ed Owens
CineScene