Which is why I had to be made to see the new James Bond movie by my White Man husband. I really wasn’t in the mood for all that sex, booze, and winning-at-all-costs stuff.
But those Brits are a crafty lot. SKYFALL is a subtle, thoughtful film. Yes, there are chase scenes and breasty women, but the writers and director have done what great British writers (including Ian Fleming, Bond’s creator) have always done. They’ve given us entertainment infused with brilliant social satire.
This savage age of ours has taken a toll on 007. Underneath the impeccable Tom Ford suit, the great White Man is tattered. His torso is covered with old scars. He’s no mental or physical match for younger colleagues. His official departmental obituary makes his life seem insignificant. The women willing to sleep with him seem fewer and a bit desperate.
Things that used to work, don’t. But like a true hero, Bond digs deep into the dusty recesses of his character. There he finds the simple, basic tools he needs. He also recovers some traditional masculine virtues like loyalty, honor, integrity, and the will to defend and protect those who are weaker, less fortunate, or just plain dependent on him to do the right thing. When asked if he has a hobby, Bond pauses then answers “Resurrection.” To the film’s credit, this one word has a million different meanings and not just for Bond, but for us, too.
Maybe it is The End of White Men. Or maybe they’re just long overdue for an evolutionary niptuck. Maybe it’s time to reach deep. Wise up. Grow up. Get real. Like the veganized Bill Clinton or the new bi-partisan Chris Christie.
I say, buck up, White Men. And let our dear James show you the way.