58 THE NEWYORKER, OCTOBER 18, 2021
loyal Nomi, and, yes, a submersible
glider—to save the day. Plus, if pos-
sible, himself.
T
here are many surprises in “No
Time to Die.” The major ones I
would scorn to reveal, even if you trained
a laser on my undercarriage or suspended
me over a tank of unfed sharks. Less
important, but equally unexpected, are
the glitches in continuity: Bond driv-
ing directly from labyrinthine Italian
streets to a railroad station, on the flat,
in what looks like another town entirely,
or emerging from a foggy Norwegian
forest into a nice bright day. A happier
shock is the disclosure that Q has a cat,
of the hairless variety. (“You know, they
come with fur these days,” Bond re-
marks.) Maybe Q had cats all along—
pussies galore!—and kept us in the dark.
The plot, too, is crawling with twists,
yet we soon grasp, all too clearly, where
it’s heading: du côté de chez Swann. It
turns out that Madeleine has a daugh-
ter, named Mathilde (Lisa-Dorah Son-
net). “She’s not yours,” Madeleine says
to Bond, reassuringly, yet the kid does
have blue eyes, like his, and he is so
drawn to her that, in the heat of the fi-
nale, he—the sort of fellow who used
to blow up a volcano before breakfast—
pauses to retrieve her knitted toy, Dou
Dou, and tucks it into his suspenders.
Lucky for Dou Dou, of course, but what
does this herald for the brand of Bond?
Everyone agrees that the age of the lady-
killer is dead, unmourned, but are we
ready for Bond the babysitter?
Fans will fret, and, as if to assuage
them, Fukunaga piles on the retro treats:
a guest appearance from Blofeld (Chris-
toph Waltz), for one thing, and multi-
ple morsels of Bonds past. As in “Sky-
fall” (2012), someone is trapped under
a frozen lake, and the bunker where
Safin breeds his toxins resembles the
mega-garage where the madman in
“The Spy Who Loved Me” (1977)
parked his stolen submarines. In a trib-
ute to “On Her Majesty’s Secret Ser-
vice” (1969), we get an Aston Martin
DBS, a reprise of Louis Armstrong in
the end credits, and, during a conver-
sation between Bond and M beside the
Thames, a gentle echo of John Barry’s
electronic score. (How I miss Barry.
Would the myth of Bond even have
survived without him?) As a valedic-
tion to Craig, though, “No Time to Die”
leans so relentlessly on his earlier Bond
films that anyone who never saw them,
or failed to take copious notes, will be
stranded. You mean you’ve forgotten
that Madeleine’s father was Mr. White,
introduced in “Casino Royale” (2006)?
Shame on you!
The problem with “No Time to Die”
is that it’s all about itself, and the tug
of its own origins. Such is the current
mode: we live under the spell of long-
form television, and of the Marvel uni-
verse, both of which woo us with re-
curring characters and reward us for the
stamina of our emotional investment.
You could argue that no form has been
longer than Bond’s, but the changes
of cast—the actors playing 007, M, Q,
Moneypenny, and Blofeld—have re-
freshed the fun, and each movie, by and
large, has stood alone. Not so the new
film, which throbs with old wounds.
It’s often exciting, but there’s something
inward and agonized about the thrills,
and the insouciance of Connery’s epoch,
for better or worse, seems like ancient
history. “No Time to Die” has a heavy
heart, and right now, more than ever,
we could use a light one. As we trickle
back to cinemas, is it merely frivolous
to hope that a James Bond flick should
leave us feeling cheered up?
Still, let us give thanks for what we
have. Listen to M, for a start, as he is-
sues a command: “Q, hack into Blofeld’s
bionic eye”—a strong candidate for the
most Bond-tastic line ever spoken. (Top
marks to Fiennes for saying it with a
straight face.) Best and blithest of all
is Bond’s trip to Cuba, where he teams
up with a novice agent named Paloma.
She is played by Ana de Armas, who
is Havana-born, and who consorted
so nimbly with Craig in “Knives Out”
(2019). Now, in evening dress, and in
extreme peril, Paloma and Bond have
to shoot their way out of trouble, though
not before pausing for a brace of vodka
Martinis. Paloma drains most of hers
in a single glug. Mid-mayhem, they
pause again to refuel, with a quick tot
of something at the bar, before getting
back to work. What bliss: in the depths
of a wry and disconsolate film, it’s like
watching Fred and Ginger. “You were
excellent,” Bond tells Paloma as they
part. She smiles and replies, “You, too.”
And so say all of us.
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