James, James, James. You ossified, decrepit old fossil. You're worse than a sexist—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. by Ned Lannamann