Brian Trent dot com

For those who don’t know, I’m a James Bond fanatic. I grew up reading the original Ian Fleming paperback novels, devoured every film, and brandished Playstation controllers to cruise video game contributions to the 007 universe. I find the mythos fascinating, the franchise dependable. It’s not Shakespeare and was never supposed to be; Bond is pure entertainment with a trusty edge of class.

The series has had its high points (Goldfinger, Goldeneye, Thunderball) and low points (Moonraker, Die Another Day) but Quantum of Solace is almost absent from the list entirely. The producers have misstepped, and they have Bond 23 to make things right.

It’s not that Quantum of Solace is a bad film. As an action flick, it’s enjoyable… though not great. One major problem is today’s penchant for disorienting quick-cuts and frenetic editing, which nearly derailed the later Bourne films for me. When I watch a movie, I want to see what’s going on; the new fetish for jerky cameras makes me want to clobber someone and then force a diazepam down their throat. The Bourne Identity didn’t suffer from this problem. Neither did earlier Bond films. Lots of action, and I always knew who was fighting.

But another problem is the way the fun and color have been bleached out of the proceedings. Bond is a killer, sure, yet he dwells in a brighter universe than ours and his adventures — even when they concern death — are never morose for long.

QOS is morose, from beginning to end. The only time it channels its roots is when the classic Bond music starts playing towards the film’s final fifteen minutes… and that served to remind me of another gripe: Where was that music all along?

It’s not by accident that I’m bringing up the Jason Bourne films in the same sentence as James Bond. Aside from the above-mentioned gripe, I quite like the Bourne films. They are gritty, edgy, and cynical. They exist in our world, cloaked in shadows and ugliness of human nature. Matt Damon is excellent in the titular role. I sincerely hope the upcoming fourth installment is as good. (I would encourage fans to mail mild tranquilizers to the camera-operators, just to be safe.)

The Bond films are not the Bourne films, however. Bourne is an everyman; Bond is larger-than-life. Bourne is almost nihilistic; Bond is fundamentally optimistic. Bourne exists in our world; Bond is a resident of a loftier dimension.

Most James Bond scholars will tell you the intrepid double-O agent was created by Ian Fleming in 1953; from his writing cabin in Jamaica, Fleming penned a Cold War hero who has far outlasted his political genesis. Yet the collapse of the Iron Curtain found James Bond still standing, sometimes shaken, often stirred, and always ready for another act.

Why this incredible, universal appeal? Because Bond was not really created in 1953; he is, instead, the modern hero-myth, and while this hero may have traded in his toga or suit-of-armor for the white tuxedo, he has remains as ageless as ever.

In the rich tapestry of global mythologies, Bond is not the first hero who went after villainous rogues, traveled to exotic locales, and had narrow escapes from certain death. He’s not even the first who used gadgets; Thor had his magical hammer Mjolner, and various Greek heroes were given special swords, invisible cloaks, and winged horses in the absence of an Aston Martin. Where Theseus and Hercules went after monsters, Bond pursues wicked dictators and megalomaniacs in their fortresses of stone, glass, and steel. The gods are on his side… extricating him from Goldfinger’s laser beam or Alec Trevelyan’s secret base in the phenomenal Goldeneye.

The Name's Gilgamesh. King Gilgamesh.

Our unique place in history is, if nothing else, a merciless typhoon of transformation. Yet Bond pulls off something quite rare; he remains immortal. The agendas of his enemies alter; Stromberg in The Spy Who Loved Me aspires to start a war that will wipe out Earth’s existing civilizations, while Tomorrow Never Dies finds a Rupert Murdoch-style villain desiring war for the sake of ratings. And consider the ever-changing title songs which date each film… in a paradoxically endearing way. From the incomparable Shirley Bassey (if ever there was a voice for 007, hers is it!) to Shirley Manson to Chris Cornell, the Bond songs themselves provide an irresistible panorama of cultural metamorphoses; an auditory document complementing the cars, bikinis, and gadgetry. Yet while the singers change, the classic Bond theme introduced in Dr. No continues thumping, rising, and trumpeting to his every cool step.

We love our heroes. Legend says that Alexander the Great used to sleep with a copy of The Iliad under his pillow, because its star Achilles was his hero; I can easily envision future military leaders napping with the 007 series resting on a nightstand shelf. The Bond films have seen 22 official installments with six different actors (or avatars) stepping into 007’s finely-polished shoes. Classic Connery, undersung Lazenby, lighthearted Moore, cold Dalton, smooth Brosnan… and now Daniel Craig, who brings his own brand of point-blank brutal efficiency to the role and may, just may, achieve the closest incarnation to Fleming’s original creation.

The problem with the new Bond isn’t Daniel Craig. The problem is that the producers are yanking the Bond train off the tracks. Gone are the gadgets, the stylish gun barrel opening, Moneypenny and Q. Without these ingredients, the franchise falters.

I thought Casino Royale was a great installment to the series, and though I found myself missing some of the traditional elements, I was willing to grant the benefit of the doubt. This was a new Bond, in a clever reboot, and could be forgiven for trying something new. Besides, Craig managed to deliver a Bond performance; witty, magnetic, cold, brutal. He balanced all the elements masterfully, and was aided by a top-notch production and script.

Now, the benefit of the doubt is gone. It’s time to get back on track and give us the Bond who has lasted.

America has elected Barack Obama as its next president, and I’m pleased to say that for the first time in quite a while, I am genuinely excited about this individual. It has nothing to do with skin color, political affiliation, or the media’s coverage.

I don’t like to listen to what other people say about a candidate. Rather, I like to watch the candidate, examine his track record, and read his speeches. For this reason I never bought into the rampant attacks on Sarah Palin; I watched her performance myself, investigated her history myself, and came to the conclusion that she was one of the most unqualified and dangerous VP candidates in many years.

In this same way, I concluded that regardless of platitudes, Obama is a highly intelligent man with a keen understanding of the Constitution. He is a supporter of the arts, the sciences, and liberty. I believe that when history sees the side-by-side comparison of the W administration with Obama’s, it will be provide a stunning yin-yang — of accomplishment and integrity. And since this blog is primarily about literature, let me say that Obama’s acceptance speech was spectacular. Rank it up there with Patrick Henry and Abraham Lincoln. I exaggerate not.

The day before the election, Obama lost his grandmother to cancer. The day after the election, we lost the bestselling author Michael Crichton to cancer as well.

Crichton was an author I deeply admired. Growing up, I had seen The Great Train Robbery and The Andromeda Strain films, both of them excellent. But it was in a Boston drugstore when I first decided to pick up my first Crichton novel. The cover had attracted me, almost Zen in its simplicity. White background, black dinosaur bones, blue title, red author.

Jurassic Park proved a rollicking novel whose action was visceral (velociraptor attack) and intellectual (the chilling scene when the computer discovers there are way more dinosaurs in the park than they realized.)

I went on to enjoy many of his other novels, and especially the way he brought science to the public in an enjoyable, engaging way. He was like Jules Verne of modern times, and his stories reflected this interest in scientific extrapolation. Congo, Sphere, and The Andromeda Strain were also standouts for me, though the novel of The Great Train Robbery was a delightful departure of subjects from him.

Now, Mr. Crichton is dead. Despite all his money and connections, cancer defeated him.

Few people are discussing the fateful bookend of cancer deaths around Obama’s historic election. I would challenge Obama and the rest of America to say “Yes we can” to the question of whether or not cancer can be eliminated from this Earth.

To use a historical perspective, the human race managed to claw its way to the top of the food chain despite all odds. Without natural armor, poison sacs, or terrible fangs, we used our social skills and intellect to devise ways of driving back the dangers of the prehistoric world and coming out victorious. Transitioning from villages to cities, we devised ways of dealing with the scarcity of water and food. We irrigated the land, domesticated livestock, and perfected out tool-making. We pioneered surgical techniques, and can now repair paralysis in lab rats. We have mapped the human genome, landed on the moon, split the atom, and sent probes into deep space.

Is anyone still willing to say that we can’t defeat cancer?

The bubonic plague decimated Europe and Asia and can be cured with a pill today. In 1665, a renewed outbreak of the plague led London’s newspapers to declare it was divine punishment. Being divine, all one could do was pray for deliverance. Yet a millennium earlier, the Greek physician Heraclitus addressed the subject of epilepsy (also considered a heavenly curse) and wrote,

“People think epilepsy is divine because they don’t understand it. But I propose that one day we will understand what causes it, and in that moment it will cease being divine.”

Cancer is a breakdown of cellular division, resulting in out-of-control replication. New discoveries have linked viruses like HPV to certain cancers, while others owe to environmental contagions and genetic factors. There are numerous types of cancers, and it is doubtful that a single approach (barring some nanotechnological miracle) that will work for all. Yet whatever else cancer may be, it is a physical process. And humans are masters of manipulating our physical universe. That is why we can defeat it.

There is nothing spectral, magical, or otherworldly about. It. There is a mechanism to why cancer happens, and if the resources of the species were put to the task, that mechanism would be uncovered. Imagine if the monthly $10 billion Iraq War tab was used to defeat disease like this. On the scale of enemies, cave-dwelling terrorists hardly compare to the specter of cancer.

It is too late to help Obama’s grandmother, Michael Crichton, or those in our own families who have died from this disease. But it needn’t be too late for ourselves, our children, and our tomorrow.