007, Again

Gadgetry not guile or guts makes Goldfinger palatable.

If that sentence is gimmicky, it is only an appropriate way to treat the latest movie version of Ian Fleming's neo-westerns. Our fascination is with an affluence grown absurd as, conditioned by an increasing freedom to travel and spend, we gladly escape into the chic byways and boudoirs of a luxury world.

After all, Bond himself is no inducement; despite his worsted suits, unfailing taste in wine, and unquestioned gambling skill, 007 is basically a boob. The original mechanical man, he fudges the assignment, makes the girl, and obliterates this edition's Odd-Job--all with a metallic equanimity. The big problem is he's both stuffy and stupid.

The real hero is Bond's car, a gleaming Aston-Martin. The only character with class in the movie, it boasts a fantastic equipage including dual machine-guns beneath the headlights, razor-sharp hub caps to shred a pursuer's tires, and a passenger seat which ejects its occupant if he happens to look like an ex-member of the Viet Cong, work for Goldfinger, and be holding a pistol to Bond's throat.

But grandiose consumer toys, an array of pseudoscientific gear, and stylish spas or hideouts are only sofascinating. By the end, no one really gives a damn whether the whole town of Fort Knox is gassed to death or whether Goldfinger does finally break the bank. Will the scene be more spectacular than the gilded ladies, golden Rolls-Royces, and pernicious laser rays which preceded it? Since the answer is no, the movie ends with an anti-climatic thud (or, rather, rustle; Bond and girl assume their usual, final positions beneath a parachute).

It would be nice to give the Goldfinger people credit for clever parody. However that form depends on a recognizable model and only the two previous Bond movies are effectively ridiculed. This is incestuous and--if that's not the right word given 007-ludicrous. Although the movie starts out as an enjoyably satiric melodrama, it is so lacking in character or conflict that melodrama too soon becomes no drama at all. A parody of a parody is too much.

But since people love to watch gyrations--whether sexual or mechanical--however vacuous the context, Goldfinger will fill up theaters. And if you go, as you undoubtedly will, best lubricate yourself with a spot of wine. Chateauneuf du Pape '55, perhaps?