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It’s one of the film’s cleverest little inventions, one that could have been judiciously built into a nice running gag.īut just as James and Elektra find one another, her old tormentor, the terrorist Renard (Robert Carlyle), turns up. Elektra also has a history with Bond’s boss M (Judi Dench), who botched a rescue attempt of the young woman when she was held by a terrorist kidnapper, from whom Elektra subsequently escaped.Īs Elektra seems a likely target of any number of rivals in the former Soviet Union, Bond heads for the picturesquely ugly oil fields of Azerbaijan to protect her, which he needs to do the moment she takes him skiing and they’re attacked by machine-gunning marauders in airborne parahawks that become speedy snowmobiles once they’ve landed.Ī visit to the casino in Baku enables James not only to order a martini, but also to try out some nifty X-ray specs that not only permit him to see that nearly everyone there is packing, but also to check out the ladies’ undergarments. The man with the money, it turns out, was a wealthy industrialist whose daughter Elektra (Marceau) will now inherit his vast holdings, which include an unfinished oil pipeline across Western Asia to Istanbul. It’s an exhilarating sequence, one that sets up expectations that are unfortunately not matched on the rest of the trip. After 007 narrowly escapes death there, he returns to London with the loot, only to see its rightful owner blown up, sending Bond into a wild chase aboard a jet speedboat on the Thames that winds up - where else? - on top of the new Millennium Dome at Greenwich. Set in Bilbao, Spain, for the sole and entirely justifiable reason of using Frank Gehry’s new Guggenheim Museum as scenery, story launch has Bond come to collect a large stash of money recovered from a killed MI6 agent. But it’s impossible to take issue with the opening, which, at 15 minutes, must rate as the longest Bond prologue ever. There is a palpable sense of strain in the script to come up with new set piece ideas, and one of the problems is that there are too many of them. The secret agent this time has an appealing vulnerable side, not only a physical one in the form of a dislocated collar bone but in a growing susceptibility to Marceau’s character, who is more his match than any woman he’s met in quite a while. Daft, over-crammed plotting is a shame, because Brosnan grows noticeably more comfortable in the role with each outing, and here reveals a strong urge to make the most of his admittedly scant opportunities to invest Bond with interesting shadings and substance.