THE first James Bond movie I saw was The Living Daylights, one of Timothy Dalton’s two outings in the role, in which 007 foiled a nefarious arms dealer (is there any other kind?) and a rogue Russian general, helped rout the Soviets in Afghanistan, and romanced a beautiful cellist. The most memorable scene involved Bond and his lady friend using her case as a sled, riding it across the Swiss border to safety and shouting insouciantly: “Nothing to declare! Only a cello!” I was eight at the time, which is probably the perfect age to be introduced to a series that’s always been a prepubescent boy’s fantasy of what grown-up adventures are like-the gadgets and guns and the striking lack of gore, the National Geographic-meets-Tintin globetrotting, and the vision of sexual relations as little more than a series of really cool playdates.
Casino Royale, on the other hand, this autumn’s attempt to kick-start the franchise by returning to its Ian Fleming roots, is meant to be something else entirely: Bond when he wasn’t yet Bond, but just a handsome roughneck ill-at-ease in a tuxedo, by turns aggressive and vulnerable, capable of falling in love and even reconsidering his line of work. Bond for grown-ups, in other words-a man with a psychology and a history, a spy who sweats and bleeds and suffers, a hero who can’t always save the damsel in distress.
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