louaguilar
Joined Sep 2000
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louaguilar's rating
I have seen bad James Bond movies. I have seen Bond fight a midget in THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN, pigeons doing double takes in MOONRAKER, a villain flapping his arms trying to fly in MOONRAKER, Bond hanging from a swinging firetruck ladder while making cartoon sounds in A VIEW TO A KILL, and a middle-aged Bond exchanging cringe-worthy sexual quips with a middle-aged Madonna in DIE ANOTHER DAY. But no Bond film has ever been as unpleasant, distasteful, headache-inducing (in every action scene) and witlessly bad as QUANTUM OF SOLACE.
It begins with the worst pre-credits sequence in the entire series, and there have been some awful ones. A jumble of tight camera angles, frenetic movements and rapid cutting are meant to give the viewer the impression that an exciting car chase is in progress through an Alpine tollway but instead completely detaches us from the mess on screen. This segues into the worst credits sequence accompanied by the worst song in the series.
Now I can take a gritty hard-boiled Bond, and Daniel Craig is very good. But a charmless monotone Bond trudging through two of the poorest nations on the planet after a laughably lame little French villain who can't even dispose of his ex-mistress, partly due to a Jim Carrey lookalike henchman who's literally tripped up by Bond's female assistant then wears a neck brace for the duration of the movie, these things just exhaust one. Sean Connery's Bond would have shot "Dominick Greene" before the opening credits on the way to fight Goldfinger, Largo, Blofeld or some real badass villain. And after spying in Haiti and Bolivia, I expected Bond to go to Darfour next for some more pleasant scenery.
You would think you can escape the sheer inanity of the plot, the phony action, the Opra-esquire oppressive mood, the horrible settings, and the lousy character support by enjoying the requisite Bond girls. Sorry but there are none. Well there are two pretty women who alternately hang around the droopy Bond sharing no chemistry or seductive charm with him. Bond only perfunctorily sleeps with one of them, not even bothering to charm her, before resuming his confusing dreary mission and pathetic moping with girl number two.
In one of the many nonsensical sequences, Bond finds M and four British Secret Service agents in his hotel room. M orders her men to escort Bond back to London. After Bond demolishes the four and escapes, M tells a colleague that she trusts Bond and will stand by her agent, suggesting that Bond proved his loyalty by beating up her men.
The movie made 70-million dollars opening weekend on the good will from CASINO ROYALE, which although mediocre was like THUNDERBALL compared to this film. The producers must be patting themselves for their good judgments. But if there is any artistic justice, the next installment's box-office will suffer for this atrocity and die another day.
It begins with the worst pre-credits sequence in the entire series, and there have been some awful ones. A jumble of tight camera angles, frenetic movements and rapid cutting are meant to give the viewer the impression that an exciting car chase is in progress through an Alpine tollway but instead completely detaches us from the mess on screen. This segues into the worst credits sequence accompanied by the worst song in the series.
Now I can take a gritty hard-boiled Bond, and Daniel Craig is very good. But a charmless monotone Bond trudging through two of the poorest nations on the planet after a laughably lame little French villain who can't even dispose of his ex-mistress, partly due to a Jim Carrey lookalike henchman who's literally tripped up by Bond's female assistant then wears a neck brace for the duration of the movie, these things just exhaust one. Sean Connery's Bond would have shot "Dominick Greene" before the opening credits on the way to fight Goldfinger, Largo, Blofeld or some real badass villain. And after spying in Haiti and Bolivia, I expected Bond to go to Darfour next for some more pleasant scenery.
You would think you can escape the sheer inanity of the plot, the phony action, the Opra-esquire oppressive mood, the horrible settings, and the lousy character support by enjoying the requisite Bond girls. Sorry but there are none. Well there are two pretty women who alternately hang around the droopy Bond sharing no chemistry or seductive charm with him. Bond only perfunctorily sleeps with one of them, not even bothering to charm her, before resuming his confusing dreary mission and pathetic moping with girl number two.
In one of the many nonsensical sequences, Bond finds M and four British Secret Service agents in his hotel room. M orders her men to escort Bond back to London. After Bond demolishes the four and escapes, M tells a colleague that she trusts Bond and will stand by her agent, suggesting that Bond proved his loyalty by beating up her men.
The movie made 70-million dollars opening weekend on the good will from CASINO ROYALE, which although mediocre was like THUNDERBALL compared to this film. The producers must be patting themselves for their good judgments. But if there is any artistic justice, the next installment's box-office will suffer for this atrocity and die another day.
Writer director Donald Glut is currently the last man standing in imaginative and intelligent erotic horror. His unfortunately titled "Countess Dracula's Orgy of Blood" brings expertise and reverence to the vampire genre, plus a welcome heterosexuality that has been drained (pun intended) by the likes of Ann Rice, Clive Barker, David DeCoteau, and their imitators. Unlike the horror-ignorant productions from Seduction Cinema, Troma, Playboy Films, and lesser filmmakers that exploit the vampire form for dull, formulaic T&A; or the PC feminism of "Buffy" and "Angel"; Glut's eroticism rises FROM the sub-genre's conventions. He essentially brings out the sexuality which the Universal and even Hammer films could only hint at, making it delightfully profane. To that end he is wonderfully assisted by an amazing Glori Ann-Gilbert, whose unrestrained performance as a sexually insatiable, erotically beautiful vampire hits every fantasy mark. There is also a fleeting turn by iconic Spanish Horror star Paul Naschy as a tortured monk that provides a rewarding link to the past and reflects Glut's appreciation for it. Though the movie is hampered by low-budget realities and some unnecessary intentional campiness, it's the best erotic horror film in years, and a key step in Glut's ascent to major minor filmmaker.