Think of Hitler. He’s about the only person everyone can agree to hate (Screw the neo-nazis and the few surviving originals still hiding out abroad. The world took a vote, and when the final tally comes to 99.999 percent detesting a guy, I feel pretty confident rounding up the figure). He evokes feelings not only of boiling bile at the atrocities he spearheaded, but also trepidation for what he almost accomplished (and in establishing the precedent, proving that it could happen again).
Since people are often partially defined by their enemies, it speaks great volumes about the peoples who came together to thwart such a monster.
Fortunately, such monsters of that stature are rarely found in the world; though we can find quite an assortment at the local library or video rental store (or for those of you who Netflix, in your mailbox.
In writing classes they say to have a great hero, you need a great villain. Sure, most of us are cheering for good to win, but if bad isn’t nearly as cunning and calculating, a victory isn’t as thrilling.
No one gushes over an ending where the protagonist disconnects the bomb with 46 hours, 23 minutes, and 18 seconds to go. You want the hero to bust in with only minutes to go, get into a distracting tumble with the chief goon, finish them off, return to the device where, with mere micro-seconds to go, the explosive situation is diffused. Once you’re done debating whether it’s more impressive to stop the clock at 0:00:01 or 0:00:00, it’s time to race on to final confrontation with the mastermind and finally, prior to the credits the credits, reunite with the love interest of choice.
As one might guess, I’m largely patterning this textbook ending after the every James Bond movie ever made. 007 is the archetype for many a writer (and/or guy’s fantasy life), so I think it’s okay to use him as a case study.
Note: I think we need to spend a short amount of time on the hair color of the latest person cast to play James Bond because it seems everybody else is concentrating on that subject. Pretty much every article I’ve read features that fact that he’s blond either in the headline or, at the latest, before the close of the first paragraph. “Blond, James Bond,” they tout, “Blond Bombshell!” And while I can’t say I’ve seen these headlines myself, I’m sure someone has penned, “Live and Let Dye” or “Dye Another Day.” When the papers concentrate more on your hair color than your acting ability, you need to be concerned. Do the words “George Lazenby” mean anything to you? To explain to the less informed, he has the dual distinction of being the man who replaced Sean Connery as James Bond and who only played one movie in the role (even Timothy Dalton cranked out two before being replaced by Remington Steele).
I’ve been a casual fan of the franchise over the years. I use the term “casual” because I know a number of people who get more frenetic over the character. Most of my fascination stems from my senior year in high school when the marching band played a James Bond medley. I was excited because I was a drum major and the band directors wanted to do something a little bit different with uniforms. Typically, drum majors’ outfits are a flipped negative of the band, which is no big deal (“Check me out! See how my uniform colors are inverted compared to the rest of the band? They have black shoes, but I have white. Aren’t I awesome?”).
In trying something new, and in response to the fact the gender ratio of the three drum majors were two women to one guy, the decision was made to spring for Bond-style costumes. Thus, I have many fond memories of marching down the center of the football field decked out in shades and a white tux with two striking ladies at my side clad in sparkly cocktail dresses. After toiling eight years under the title “band nerd,” my ego was in no way hurt by this turn of events. The fact that I also would get to “romance” and waltz with three people in the show (a color guard member, one of the drum majors, and a tuba player “assassin” clad in an ugly dress and obvious wig) was only frosting on top of a killer cake.
That semester, I immersed myself in the music and the movies of Bond. I even tracked down some of Ian Fleming’s original (which were often quite different compared to their cinematic namesakes). Due to my studies, I would not consider myself a spy scholar, but I do feel qualified enough to point out some illustrative patterns I’ve noticed about Bond’s infamous movie counterparts (since most will be more familiar with those than his literary exploits).
Consulting the Bond barometer can tell us a bit about the times that he has inhabited.
Let’s start with “Dr. No” (yes, I am skipping “Casino Royale”). The villain is the son of German Missionary and a Chinese girl, making him the offspring of two Cold War players. His dastardly credentials are further backed up by the fact he works for S.P.E.C.T.R.E., or the Special Executor for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion (which you have to admit, looks pretty snappy on a business card). Finally, his is an atomic specialist who has lost his hands during an experiment (don’t worry. He slapped together some plastic replacements), which marks him as a malformed nuclear madman.
Compared to Connery’s debonair Bond, it’s easy to know which one to root for. Most people like their bad guys clear-cut. A tiny bit of gray ambiguity may add a level of characterization, but the stark black-hat/white-hat distinction of Western movies is preferred (having a fearsome scar, a discordant accent, or a propensity to punt puppies also work as trustworthy indicators).
Communists were popular spit-worthy scoundrels, though corrupt capitalists also made a showing. Auric Goldfinger is the most famous (and arguably has the best villain’s theme song, rivaled only by Darth Vader’s “Imperial March”) with his plan to increase the value of his gold by nuking Fort Knox (and his habit of turning women into glittering statues). Drug running plots figure in “Live and Let Die” and “License to Kill” (though “plot” may be too strong a term to employ in certain Bond entries). Tomorrow Never Dies features the advent of WWIII nearly brought on by a news media mogul.
Since the collapse of the Berlin Wall, you really don’t see any more communist plotters (The Russian mob, maybe. Trotsky followers, nyet). It’s easy to aim your sights at greedy billionaires. General terrorists are also acceptable, but politically correct people are wary to list a specific jihad for fear of being perceived as insensitive. The latest Albert Brooks’ comedy about American’s trouble with connecting with foreigners, tentatively titled “Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World,” is also having trouble getting released thanks to the same studio disconnect his movie seeks to illustrate.
It’s a tricky line one has to walk between respecting other cultures and creating a riveting villain; which is why the cliché is becoming standard. James Bond enjoyed great luxuries. Not only does he have the license to kill, but he inhabits a world where you know the villain is the guy who fiendishly strokes a cat or has a metal grin or a razor-lined bowler. In the real world, it’s harder to tell, and I envy Bond’s clarity (and his really cool gadgets).
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