The Living Daylights
(1987)
There is a fairly vocal body of opinion that regards Timothy
Dalton as the zenith of 007s. He was the Bond who got back to the basics – or,
even, found those basics – of what Ian Fleming’s character
was all about, discarding the silliness that infected later Sean Connerys and
most of the Roger Moores. This was a Bond who took being James Bond seriously,
and would never, ever, be seen with a duck on his head or donning clown make-up.
I have some sympathy with the desire to see an iconic character resemble his
original devising; I'm as prone to reacting that way with certain books or properties. But I’m
not an aficionado of Fleming’s novels, so my allegiances extend only as far as
whatever makes an entertaining Bond
movie. And on that score, unfortunately, I find Dalton a bit of a washout. The Living Daylights isn’t a bad Bond
movie – it’s one of the better ‘80s entries – but its lead actor never seems
very comfortable. Ironically, he would probably have made a much better fit a
decade or so later, when he started having fun trading on the spy persona. If Dalton
had brought a lightness of touch to the role, or even just managed to overcome
the feeling he was “acting” Bond, his tenure might have been more enduring and
illustrious. Who knows, he might have actually returned in Goldeneye.
Dalton, like Moore before him, was into his 40s before he
played the part. And, like Moore before him, he was first considered for the
role during the 1960s. It didn’t take Rog two decades to snag 007, though.
Dalton has said he thought he was too young back then, which is probably true.
I’m less sure he would have been any stiffer or less sure of himself than he is
here, though. He secured the part when the man who was Remington Steele became unavailable. The studio wouldn’t let Pierce
out of his contract, so Brosnan would become the third straight Bond to lose
out and only then win the prize. Something that didn’t happen to Sam Neill, who
screen-tested and who was first choice; everyone but Cubby Broccoli, crucially,
wanted him. To hear John Glen on the DVD documentaries, there’s a lingering
discontent over the eventual choice. The director of both Dalton Bonds appears to damn his lead actor
with faint praise.
Glen was hardly the most electric of the series’ directors,
so emotionally he might have been a match for the least electric of the series’
lead actors. But even he could probably spot that his Bond wasn’t commanding
the screen in quite the right way. Dalton is all present and correct but the
charisma just isn’t quite there. He’s subdued, studied. His performance feels
rehearsed. Credit to Dalton for going off and reading all the novels, and the
seizing on the “tarnished man” idea for his portrayal… Or does he really
deserve praise for that? Isn’t that the classic wrong-headed move of the
serious actor who doesn’t understand that he’s playing a star part? Treating
Bond as role from which to wring nuance and deep inner motivation from is
destined for disaster. Or at best a distinct lack of fun on the viewer’s part.
Brosnan would attempt to go there during his outings too, although his thesp-centricities
were more lip service to the idea than carrying it through tonally (the screams
of all his victims waking him up and a shoulder injury he carries around for an
entire movie); this urge to make Bond human.
Advocates of Dalton’s brief tenure will say he was ahead of
his time, that the movie-going public would finally embrace this mould of the
troubled, moodier and grittier spy with the Daniel Craig reboot. This is what the
series deserved all along; a studied, serious take that gets back to the
Fleming roots. But the Craig movies (and I’d argue only the first really makes
a success of this) are a direct reaction to the allure of Jason Bourne, not
some noble attempt to depict the character accurately. And Craig, a beefed-up
bruiser, is all massive man-tits and little in the way of natural debonair. By
the time of his third mission boredom with the stony-faced approach is starting
to creep in, but Craig is ill-equipped for quips, and the parts that try–
increasingly desperately – to milk an emotional pint or two serve only to
highlight how shallow and at odds with such manoeuvres the superspy’s world is.
Dalton began in reverse to Craig, effectively essaying a
watered-down Roger Moore script with all the pitfalls that suggests. When Moore
delivers a crap joke it invariably works because it’s Moore who is delivering
it. Dalton has no such luck, and there are times he’s left high and dry in The Living Daylights. Licence to Kill is more directly the
progenitor of the Craig Bond (and more specifically the out for revenge later pose
of Casino Royale/Quantum of Solace ruthless bastard), which is a better fit for the
actor (at least at that time), if a less successful film as a result (as much
of the blame for this rests with Glen, and the producers’ then inability to hone
a Bond film stylistically to meet the
needs of the script).
The Living Daylights
is the closer to the “real” world of For
Your Eyes Only and, credit where its due, Dalton at least has a footing in that
milieu in a way he simply wouldn’t in the majority of the Moore era. The scale
and the stunts have been toned down accordingly (not necessarily in terms of
technical prowess, but rather as events that have the veneer of the possible).
It’s not a movie – for the most part – where memories of copious back
projection linger, and hamper the effectiveness a sequence. The villains are
more localised; still caricatures, but not bent on global domination. The
détente theme (and Gogol) is picked up from the previous era, and the attempts
to recognise the changing political landscape of the times illustrate a growing
problem for the series. From now on, it will be constantly looking over its
shoulder, worried about whether it is still relevant, out of touch, when this
was never the primary concern anyway. In some respects The Living Daylights is all over the place, attempting to address
the East-West thaw and dropping in on Afghanistan but discussing such matters
in a crude, comic book fashion. The tone is frequently misjudged, because the
producers don’t really have a clear idea what it is they’re aiming for.
We see that with the new, improved and chaste(r) Bond. A
response to AIDS, this lack of decadence was an out-of-character sign of the
times. Probably fortunate, as Dalton can’t pull off the suave, bed-hopping
antics. But the only way to succeed with this monogamy, as with the
politicking, is to lay the groundwork, not blithely hope an affecting
relationship will be magicked into existence. They (might) have been aiming for
something approximating Rigg but there’s no sparkle here and, without the
gallivanting distractions we usually get, the whole thing fizzles. It’s weird
to see ‘80s Bond smoking too. Dalton may well have been a chuffer at the time
but it comes across as forced, as if the political correctness in certain areas
demands a counter-rebuke in others.
The Living Daylights
isn’t a bad movie, but it shows a series playing catch-up, struggling to find a
place in the mid-’80s movie world having been, if not quite on comfortable
auto-pilot for the best part of a decade, under no illusions that it didn’t
have to try very hard when its aging star ensured a guaranteed audience base
would turn up. It knows it has to change, but fundamentally lacks the daring to
go for broke. To an extent the series has had one eye on the zeitgeist since at
least the early ‘70s (Live and Let Die).
Casino Royale is a success despite the burdensome mishmash of jackdaw instincts
that brought it into being; faddish reboots (Daylights, curiously, was conceived similarly in its initial
stages) and gritty action sequences. A willingness to be original (within its
own limits) absented itself following the experimental phase of the late ‘60s
and early ‘70s and the changes that went on behind the scenes. After that,
there were tonal shifts (farce, for example) but little in the way of challenging
ones.
Brosnan’s era is roundly and regularly demolished these
days. As much of that is too do with how smoothly unchallenging Brosnan is in
the role (I like the actor, and initially enjoyed his Bond, but he’d run out of
routines two movies in; he had all that time to build up to getting the part, yet
was left looking for something interesting to do with it when he got there) as
it is the slick formula construction of his era. Licence to Kill and Goldeneye
both mess with the plan a little, but they probably should have switched the
areas that didn’t. With a lacklustre director, Licence to Kill flounders where it most needs a short in the arm; it
should be short, sharp and punchy. Goldeneye,
for this so staid of series, is stylistically refreshing and arresting,
complete with a score that thumbs its nose at tradition; when Martin Campbell
returned the results would be similarly successful. But in between there’s an
unwillingness, or an inability, to go with anything distinct or unusual. Which
is why you end up with an anniversary movie like Skyfall, perhaps visually the most interesting of the series but
with a screenplay that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Brosnan era
(indeed, it suffers from main of the excess and errors of Die Another Day, right down to its hero’s journey).
Which brings me back to The
Living Daylights. It's premised deriving from the Fleming short story of the same name, this is an uncertain Bond
movie, one that is neither fish nor fowl. When it works, it works very well but Daylights’ powder keg rarely ignites, and
there’s no tension in watching the fuse burn. I give John Glen stick because
he’s such a pedestrian director, the very definition of the safe, loyal, pair
of hands; the chap the producers knew would not rock the boat, would do as he was told
and never dare to suggest anything original or disruptive to, you know, make
the series actually distinguish itself (it’s ever ironic that someone like Sam
Mendes – who I’d call a wannabe auteur rather than the real thing but still, he
has a sensibility – comes in and makes the most successful movie in the series;
a slap in the face to producer power, even). Yet Daylights might be his best work during his decade-long residence
at the reins of the series. He cant rely on flabby asides during action
sequences because Dalton can’t do what Moore can do. As a result, a couple of the
set pieces rank up there with the best of the series to that date.
The use of Gibraltar for the war-gaming opening seems like a
curiously prescient choice given adverse publicity Death on the Rock brought to the island the following year. It sets
a pace the rest of the movie can’t quite live up to; a one-on-one close
quarters sequence rather than the overblown carnage we’re used to. But it also
establishes that Daylights will keep fudging
its follow through, resorting to comic asides that seem borderline apologetic now
Moore isn’t there to commandeer them (Craig’s comic chops are similarly absent
from Skyfall). John Barry’s use of
synths complements the action beats, and feels fresh. Okay, there’s rock ape,
and the Brit characters are a bit stolid, but things only begin to look really awkward
when Dalton lands on a yacht occupied by a sexy lady in a bikini. Dalton
doesn’t look like he’s up for a good time. He’s no lothario.
Bond: I’ll join you in an hour.
Sexy lady in bikini:
Won’t you join me?
Bond: Better make that two.
This is uneasiness extends into the titles. Courtesy of the now running-on-empty Maurice
Binder, they are unwelcomely juxtaposed with a really rather good but
underrated A-Ha title song. As with Duran Duran, the contemporary boy band
flirtation comes unstuck as the surroundings reflect none of their youth and
energy. No wonder Barry and the pop combo butted heads. This is most
transparent in the body of the movie, where the composer repeatedly references
The Pretenders secondary theme in what can only be viewed as an overt snub.
After this we’re off to Bratislava where Thomas Wheately essays
the blandest of tight-arsed British agents (Saunders), who kicks off by reprimanding
007 in the most wooden of ways (is this to give Dalton some contrasting edge?
It doesn’t really fly, it just makes the movie seem even more hopelessly out of
touch). Bond wont shoot a girl (“You
missed, deliberately!”), and naturally he falls for her. We also encounter
the first of the movie’s series of visits to public urinals. There are surely
better ways to suggest earthy realism.
Particularly when the object of
endeavours, the removal of “defector” Koskov (Jeroen Krabbé,
who is good value throughout; at least the tepid villains in this film are
played by actors who know how to have a bit of fun), happens to involve sending
him along a “pipeline” to the West. Glen even seems keen to point out how silly
this is, showing pipes that veer at alarming right angles; they couldn’t
possibly transport Koskov. On the plus side there’s also Julie T Wallace, fresh
from The Life and Loves of a She-Devil
as Bond’s Czech contact. Hers is the kind of era-spanning cameo, the butch
Eastern European femme whom Bond has no interest in, that would have been
comfortable in any iteration of the series.
This Bond alternates very
PG-passion for his job (“Stuff my orders.
I only kill professionals”) with genuine head-in-hands, groan-inducing
dialogue that even riffs on the title (“Whoever
she was, it must have scared the living daylights out of her” he quips after
he shoots the gun from Kara’s hands). There’s little to say about Maryam d’Abo
as Kara. She’s utterly inconsequential. Winsome, pretty, and forgettable. Bond
may be a one-woman man here, but his woman is devoid of independence, characterised
by whichever man she is devoted to at whichever point. D’Abo gives good
reaction expressions during action scenes, but the attempts at establishing
passion between her fragile beauty and Bond’s glaring stoicism are doomed to
failure.
The inability of the series’ to divest itself of the old
continues into the introduction of the regulars (this problem is alive and well
with Craig’s incarnation, dragging the behemoth that is Oscar Winner Dame Judi
Dench into the reboot purely because she is Oscar Winner Dame Judi Dench, and
consequently manufacturing inappropriate interludes to trade on her Oscar
Winning Judi Dench status). Q, half dead and continuing to decompose over the
next decade, makes a really bad granddad pun (“Something we’re making for the Americans – it’s called a ghetto blaster”)
He does have a very cool people-eating sofa, though.
It’s always fun to see the Aston Martin brought back into
service, except maybe in Skyfall
where the gags go down like a lead balloon (blame the writers and natural
un-funny man Craig for that). The action here works well, although the same
problem as earlier exists throughout the sequence; it’s impossible to avoid
thinking how much better Moore would be delivering lines about salt corrosion,
safety glass and “optional extras”
(very ‘80s). Still, Dalton can’t spoil the splendid sight gag of a hut driving
across a frozen lake; it’s more a problem that it’s in the wrong movie. This
should have been in a late ‘70s Moore not a mid-‘80s Dalton. The cello-toboggan
chase is also the kind of bit built for a less austere framework than this;
Dalton’s “We’ve nothing to declare”
fizzles.
John Terry, best known now as Jack’s ghostly dad in Lost, might be the most non-descript of
the seven Feliz Leiters up to that point. Which is saying something, as he’s
persistently been a character the writers have given short shrift to, except
maybe in his original Jack Lord incarnation.
The new Moneypenny is a extraordinarily average attempt to reheat
the simmering designs of Lois Maxwell on Connery and Moore. Caroline Bliss
isn’t to blame, it’s the slavishness to tradition. One thing Bond has rarely understood is that with
a ready audience there’s a myriad of potential different directions if only the
producers weren’t so damned faint-hearted.
I mean, is there any reason why a Bond
shouldn’t embrace the kind of intrigue more associated with John Le Carré?
As such, the pretend-defection plot device would have worked
better if it had been less obvious. It has all the hallmarks of writers who
don’t know how to treat a good twist because they’re only used to traversing
from A to B, in order get to the next set piece. Why wouldn’t Koskov consider
the possibility that everyone else would find something a little suspect about
a talented cellist attempting to assassinate him? Wouldn’t it be common sense
to use someone a little less conspicuous? It’s an element that might be used
for suspense and intrigue, but Glen is no craftsman and the Michael G.
Wilson/Richard Maibaum screenwriting duo, who handled all the Bonds of that decade, churns out
consistently unvarnished, personality-free material.
For proof, look no further than the Bond villains of the decade. How many are memorable? Maybe Christopher
Walken in A View to a Kill, but
that’s in spite of the lousy characterisation. I’ve mentioned Krabbé’s
Koskov, who makes an impact in an appealingly weasely way. But he isn’t really
a star attraction villain, more of a supporting wheeler-dealer. He’s no match
for Bond in ruthless scheming. As such, it’s fitting that he elicits one of the
movie’s better lines, reliably delivered by Walter Gotell in his last
appearance as Gogol (“Put him on the next
plane to Moscow – in the diplomatic bag”).
Elsewhere Andreas Wisiniewski warms up for the following
year’s Die Hard (a whole different
class of action, one that really rubs the Bond
series’ nose in how antiquated it has become in basic filmmaking terms) as Necros,
the picture’s heavy. A hit man who scoots from country to country listening to
a Walkman (because this is 1987) as he fulfils his missions, but only seems to
ever play The Pretenders’ Where Has
Everybody Gone (because it’s the tie-in song, and because Barry hates
A-Ha). Wisiniewski has presence, and suitably silly Bond henchman surname, but he isn’t iconically memorable the way
Odd Job or Mr Kidd and Mr Wint are. It’s that kind of Bond movie, where everyone just sort of blends in with the inter-continental
wallpaper rather than making a mark.
So there’s John Rhys-Davies, brought to moviegoers attention
at the start of the decade as Sallah in Raiders
of the Lost Ark. General Leonid Pushkin is introduced at the star as
Gogol’s replacement, but “sick like Stalin” and who “hates our new policy of détente” (to be
honest, even the earlier Moore movies seem more topical, so piecemeal is the
political context here). This has potential as a plot thread, with Bond having
Pushkin’s back instinctively (“He’s tough
and resourceful, but I cant believe he’s psychotic”), and it leads to
possibly the picture’s strongest scene. Reluctant assassin 007 arrives to
execute Pushkin (“Get down on your knees”)
but the conversation that ensues isn’t one of archenemies or the revealing of a
deranged maniac. It elicits carefully coded language that leads Pushkin’s faked
death.
Bond: As long as you’re alive, we’ll never know
what he’s up to.
Pushkin: Then I must die.
Dalton and Rhys-Davies make a good fit, although the latter
is a bit too instantly cuddly to suggest the possibility of questionable
motives. Pushkin is only a step towards the main baddie, and so much time has
been spent setting up half-villains (Koskov) and non-really villains (Pushkin)
that Joe Don Baker’s Brad Whitaker is unable to really make his mark. Baker’s a
fine actor, and his Jack Wade in the first two Brosnan movies is the kind of
relishable supporting turn (“Jimbo”,
indeed) that would have made Felix Leiter a great
character if he’d been envisage that way rather than as a name check. But
Whitaker has about two scenes. One might view his ex-military corporatised
mercenary operation as prescient of Black Water and the like, if it actually
had any muscle or thought behind it.
Whitaker is set up as a so-so baddie,
expelled from West Point and with only delusions of being a great war monger to
inform of us of his nature. There’s a nice little speech during his first scene
where he corrects the suggestion that the military leaders are butchers (“Surgeons – they cut away society’s dead
flesh”), but ultimately his penchant for self-styled pictures and waxworks
dressed in previous legends’ regalia and messing about with dioramas undermines
his effectiveness as an adversary. He seems like an afterthought, and his
confrontation with Bond is more of a postscript than something to build towards
(I’d be surprised if many in the audience thought there was anything left to
come after the aeroplane stunt). Worse, it comes across as a weak distillation of
Man With the Golden Gun’s hall of
mirrors, with a final quip even Moore couldn’t have pulled off (“He met his Waterloo”).
Action-wise, it’s ironic that the best fight doesn’t even
feature Bond. It’s illustrative of where the picture is going wrong throughout,
in fact, under-emphasising its key ingredients (lead character, villains,
action) to make for something anti-climactic as a whole. Bill Weston, who had been performing stunts
for the series since the Connery era, plays a butler embroiled in a
particularly bruising altercation with Necros at a country retreat. It has the
feel of no-holds barred desperation that Dalton himself could have done with if
he was to sell his more “legitimate” 007. Later, there’s a rooftop chase in
Tangiers, another indication that this movie is full of good ideas, but lacks
the guiding force to use them wisely (The
Bourne Ultimatum and Inception would
feature the location much more effectively 20 years later).
Kara: Where are you going?
Bond: To defuse a bomb.
The plane sequence is a strong one, as Bond attempts to
deactivate the bomb he planted on a plane full of opium (ultimately the drug
dealing aspect has as little “substance” as it did in Live and Let Die) and it includes a highly unlikely (but a rather
good model shot) moment where Bond blows up a bridge to help the Mujahedeen. Well
done! Striking victory for the Afghans against the Russian menace! The jeep’s exit from the plane is a great
idea, but as with most of Glen’s tenure, the camerawork and editing fail to
make the most of it. There are also a fair share of ropey lines (“I just hope we can make Pakistan!”) and a
few classically Bondian ones (“I know a
great restaurant in Karachi. We can just make dinner”).
The Mujahedeen as Bond’s friends and allies now seems either
charmingly quaint or ridiculously naive, depending on your mood of the moment. Rambo III adopted a similar “enemies of
our enemies” approach the following year, as the big villain of the era, the
Soviet Union, still just about struggled to represent a nice cosy force to be
reckoned with. One might hopefully suggest The
Living Daylights has an entirely respectful attitude towards the Afghan
people, except that it doesn’t. It makes the implication that any good leader
of a Middle Eastern country requires an Oxbridge education, as embodied by Art
Malik’s charismatic (and quite good fun, up to a point) Kamran Shah.
Malik
would strike further blows against anti-stereotyping as a rent-an-Arab in years
to come, most notably in James Cameron’s wantonly racist True Lies (it’s okay, Cameron’s now all about ecology and
spirituality, via mass-devastation). There’s a prison scene amidst this, with
more strong Barry music (at least, it stands out amid a generally indifferent
score) and a rather inept commentary on attitudes to women (“Don’t worry. They’ll save you for the harem”
Kara is told; because all Arabs have harems, obviously). But then the Bond girl
shows these foreign devils a thing or two about bravery, riding off on a horse
to rescue James. In response to which Shah sighs “Women” and gallops after her with his men. It’s quite toe curling.
Shah is a drug dealer, but a nice drug dealer because he sells to the Russians
(“I couldn’t care less if the Russians
die from his arms or his opium”). Maibaum and Wilson both pull their
punches and make their Afghanis incredibly clichéd, no mean feat of ineptness.
In the Moore era, stereotyping looks self-conscious even if it isn’t. Here it
looks plain ignorant. Worst of all is the arrival of Shah and the Snow Leopard
Brotherhood following a performance by Kara. It’s just awful (not the
performance). What do Glen and company think this is? Blazing Saddles? On the positive side, this isn’t as awful as
Thatch and Dennis appearing at the end of For
Your Eyes Only, but it’s a close run thing.
When Bond tries
too hard to make a statement or promote an angle with its Bond girls, or
extract an emotional heartbeat, it’s usually in danger of coming a cropper. As
adored as it is, I never fully bought into the Bond-Vesper relationship in Casino Royale. If the unlikely success
of the Lazenby-Rigg combo is the yardstick against which all “deep” Bond movie relationships must be judged,
the intentionally celibate approach of The
Living Daylights is an abject failure. The best stint of Bond girls might well be the ‘70s, not because the characters are progressive but they are generally imbued
with personality. Increasingly the series, by being aware of the importance of
the leading lady, and second-guessing inevitable charges of sexism that have
(rightly) dogged the history of Bond, has made its characters ineffectual and,
worse, no fun whatsoever.
This is the case with Kara, who might well be the blandest Bond girl of them all. Worse, in an era
where Bond being accused of a misogynist sexist dinosaur is just around the
corner, she’s the most regressive, undynamic need-a-man-to-be-fulfilled
character imaginable. Is this the new, more mature 007? Really? Bond is either
sappy in response (it undercuts him that she go back for her cello, since there
needs to be some kind of spark between them to explain why he’d do something so
daft) or his devotedness spirals into charmlessness (“Why didn’t you learn the violin?” doesn’t have the delivery of a
man who is instantly smitten). Kara has a nominally crucial role in the
narrative (“The girl’s your only chance
of getting Koskov”), and the scene in which she spikes Bond’s drink is an
untypical instance of the two interacting in a manner that advances plot and
character (“I was the man who was sent to
kill you”). Even then, Bond’s sincerity grates and seems. It’s rather
embarrassing to see Bond, Dalton’s Bond, taking Kara on a roller coaster and
winning her a toy elephant. The unlikely romance angle wouldn’t improve
instantly; Brosnan’s Bond’s relationship with Natalia in Goldeneye is similarly languid and unproved although, for all their
faults, he actually has a couple of well-conceived relationships in his
mid-period movies.
The Living Daylights
is an uncertain transition movie. John Glen directs serviceably, but it has
been pre-fitted with too many Moore elements that are ill suited to Dalton. Pretty
much any given quip is Swiss-cheesed into tumbleweed territory by the actor (“We have an old saying, Georgi, and you’re
full of it”), while the areas that try to do something different (the
relationship) fail due to lack of chemistry between the leads and an absence of
verve in the writing. It’s as well they decided not to equip Bond with full ribald
abandon, as Dalton has a difficult enough time with anything requiring a light
touch. As such, it isn’t so surprising the public weren’t noticeably enthused,
even if the die-hards welcomed this new more respectful take. A View to a Kill had been greeted less
unequivocally than previous Moore outings, and Dalton didn’t appear to bring
audiences in droves back to the cinema.
While it is quoted as being one of the most successful in
the series up to that point globally (I take that with a pinch of salt, as it
wouldn’t account for inflation), The
Living Daylights didn’t gain traction in the US. The States has never been the be all and end
of all of the franchise, but it’s a crucial market (just look at the wooing of
Connery back for Diamonds are Forever
with its girl and setting). Bond was
out of its Moore comfort zone and struggling to make an impact. The producers
weren’t going to admit they might have made a mistake, even when Licence to Kill did a complete belly-up
in the States two years later. They were to be commended for trying something
different with that movie, but lacked the confidence to really go all out. The
result was a hard-edged Bond movie
without enough bite. Dalton was all set for a third outing in 1991 until the
legal dispute between UA/MGM and Eon nixed it, and set to return in Goldeneye until he reconsidered. It seems strange in retrospect that they were
going for business-as-usual, and the eventual return was seen as a much-needed
shot in the arm (the 1991 edition would no doubt have been more of the same with
Glen helming). Licence to Kill is the
superior of the two Dalton outings, but it lacks the courage of its
convictions. It falls between too many stools in too many areas. The stiffness
of its leading man means it lacks the charm of previous incarnations, while the
undemanding scripting and direction ensures it is unable to break the mould
where it counts.
