JAMES, JAMES, JAMES. You ossified, decrepit old fossil. You're worse than a sexist pig—you're a blood-crazed, psychopathic killer. You misogynistic, barbaric fiend!
And now you're back again, in yet another screening of the done-to-death Goldfinger—never mind that it's playing in a new digital transfer that will probably be the best the 1964 Bond film has ever looked on a Portland movie screen. Yawn. I've seen you take on Auric Goldfinger probably two dozen times, and frankly, I'm sick to death of it. I've watched you, over and over, wrestle the vicious henchman Oddjob and the razor-sharp brim of his bowler hat. I've witnessed you, countless times, put on that ridiculous powder-blue terrycloth onesie and seduce the staggeringly beautiful, doomed Jill Masterson—who'll soon find herself with more precious metal than she bargained for. And I've seen that tour-de-force final battle in the Fort Knox gold vault so many times that I... I... well, I can't help but get caught up in it.
Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yes. This one—this Goldfinger caper of yours—really takes the cake. I haven't even mentioned Mr. Goldfinger himself, and that scene where you ask him, "Do you expect me to talk?" And he sneers, "No, Mr. Bond—I expect you to die!" A younger, more impressionable me might once have thought that line was totally, completely badass.
But no more! You, James—you're an outright dog in this one. That scene where you force your muscled, stallion-like body on the ostensibly lesbian Pussy Galore—where you basically turn her, quite plainly against her will, into a heterosexual? It's so far beyond offensive that I don't even know where to start. And there's that silver-birch Aston Martin DB5, with its tricked-out weaponry and ejector seat. Why, it's simply ludicrous. Who on earth would ever covet such a preposterous... outlandish... stunningly gorgeous machine?
James... you... you... ohhh, James. I simply can't quit you, James.