Gender and sexuality in Skyfall

[WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS]

First off, let me say how much I love a good Bond film. I reckon my inner teenage boy/geek derives just as much satisfaction from all the car chases, guns, gadgets and hot women that typifies the franchise as the next bloke.

Bond is a British institution, the epitome of a particular fantasy shared by men and women alike: the globe-trotting suave spy, living life dangerously, fighting for his country, defeating various madcap villains and saving the world, whilst still finding time to slake his thirst with a vodka martini, satisfy his libido with beautiful women in luxurious locations, and drive really fast, really expensive cars.

The appeal is not hard to see, really. He’s the hero men want to be and women want the chance to be with, even if only for one night (though it must be said one of the risks of this is almost-certain death… Bond girls tend to have about as much luck on the life expectancy front as the poor red shirts in Star Trek – more on that later).

Casino Royale, Daniel Craig’s first outing as the new Bond, is probably one of my favourite films to be released in the last ten years; on the whole, critics and fans alike seem to agree that it really did breathe new life into the series, saving it from the camp ridicule of Pierce Brosnan’s last few efforts and somehow making Bond feel current and relevant again (reflected by the film’s high score of 95% on Rotten Tomatoes). Reboots are always a risky business but, beyond all expectations, it just... worked.

For me, Royale is that rare beast of a thrilling action movie (Parkour! Fist fights on top of a crane! Jumbo jets!) that also manages to pack an emotional punch (That shower scene! Bond in love! Betrayal!). It’s also a film that remains agreeably satisfying on repeat viewings.

Quantum of Solace, blighted by the writer’s strike, was a far less satisfying entry in the canon, a lean and brutal slice of instantly forgettable nothinginess: all blunt vengeance and hard to follow shaky-cam action sequences.

So I approached Skyfall with a degree of caution, keen to see if it would live up to the hype and the high standard set by Casino Royale.

I came away from the cinema feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I felt as though I had enjoyed myself. It had certainly hit all the right notes: the sexy femme fatale (a beguiling Bérénice Marlohe); the memorably unhinged villain (Javier Bardem, though with distracting blond bouffant hairdo); thrilling action sequences (biking over the rooftops of the Grand Bazaar, a derailed Tube train, explosions); fantastic locations (Istanbul, Shanghai, London and the Scottish Highlands); snappy dialogue and witty one-liners (playful exchanges between Bond and Naomie Harris’ Eve and a brilliant turn by Ben Whishaw as the new Q); vintage cars (the Aston Martin DB5, first driven fifty years ago by Sean Connery’s Bond in Goldfinger). It even had the prescribed dose of emotional wallop (M’s demise and Bond’s subsequent breakdown).

Despite all of this, I still felt unsatisfied, as though something were missing. It felt a bit like I’d just consumed an Easter Egg – beautifully packaged and full of chocolatey goodness, but ultimately hollow.

Why had I not wholly embraced this latest Bond film as I had Casino Royale? Why the reservations? Why was I not as moved by M’s death as I had been Vesper’s? Even though I love Judi Dench and think she’s made of awesome?

I’m still trying to figure it all out. But one thing I do know for sure is that there are two specific things about this film that really bothered me.

#1 The Portrayal of Women

Now, I know that taking issue with Bond for exhibiting any kind of misogyny or chauvinism is about as pointless as expecting to open up a copy of The Sun at page 3 and not be visually assaulted by a pair of giant boobs.

The incontrovertible truth is thus: Bond girls are almost always disposable eye candy, there to provide a bit of glamour and a means for 007 to get his end away before dashing off to fell the next baddie. Character development is not usually a massive consideration (which is perhaps why Eva Green’s Vesper Lynd was such a pleasant surprise).

Normally, I can just about consciously decide to take my feminist hat off and get stuck in, with the same gusto (and slight after-the-act guilt) with which I attack a McDonalds double cheeseburger, i.e. I know it’s a bit wrong but I can still enjoy it.

But I found the fate of all three female characters in this film deeply troubling.

M (Judi Dench)

“What about M?” you may cry. “She doesn’t parade around in skimpy clothing, she’s not a love interest, and she’s the boss of MI6!”

Yes, she is, and once again I would like to express how much I love Judi Dench. She pulls off haughty, matriarchal and no nonsense unlike any other, hence her perfect fit for Queen Elizabeth I in Shakespeare in Love, a cameo which, despite the shortness in length (not much more than 8 minutes’ worth of screen time) earned her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar.

I love M. She’s a badass. She’s James Bond’s boss. She effortlessly commands the respect of her peers, and that of the hero most of all. Admittedly, there is the danger of her fitting the stereotypical profile of the ball-breaking, ruthless battle-axe devoid of compassion, a sort of Deborah Meaden meets Lady Macbeth, unsexed and duly divorced from the milk of kindness.

But there are soft edges to the otherwise steely M – her fondness for Bond, for instance, as noted by Ralph Fiennes’ Mallory, or the mentions of her late husband, which hint at a homely domesticity and affection at odds with her professional persona.

It seems Bond, too, feels perhaps a little more for her than just a cool deference and professional regard – cradling her lifeless body at the end, tears streaming down his rugged manly face, he looks very much as though he has regressed to boyhood, reliving the trauma of losing his parents so many years ago.

To use another Shakespeare reference, here’s the rub: badass though she may have been across the last three films, M is, in effect, refrigerated. First, reduced to vulnerable damsel in distress, then killed off and replaced by a man. (Sigh.)

Eve (Naomie Harris)

What’s this? A woman “of colour”? Holding a gun? Out in the field on a mission with Bond? As equals? Blimey! So far, so good, eh?

The presence of Naomie Harris as Eve in this film is most welcome; she’s a sort of anti-Halle Berry – no gratuitous emerging from the sea in an orange bikini for this lady.

Nope, instead, she’s the woman who kills Bond, though thankfully he harbours no hard feelings.

Here’s what was different about this Bond girl: playful flirting with Bond, yes, but throwaway one-night-stand sex, no; beautiful and competent, yes, but skimpy outfits or aggressive femme-fatale sexuality, no.

In fact, one of her exchanges with Bond very early on in the film knowingly riffs on gender stereotypes, as she snaps off one of her wing mirrors, to Bond’s arched-eyebrowed bemusement.

Not willing to be taken for a token bad woman driver, however, she purposely ploughs into oncoming traffic, proclaiming, as the second mirror snaps off, “I wasn’t using that one, either.”

Wisely, Bond does not utter a single word.

So what becomes of our smart, sassy, gun-toting, field agent heroine?

Well, she’s not refrigerated, which is a relief, and survives to see another day, but not before deciding that being out in the field is just too much for her to handle. Her surname is finally revealed (Moneypenny) and she takes up her new desk job as secretary. (Sigh.)

I do not mean to undervalue secretaries, but really?

Sévérine (Bérénice Marlohe)

Bérénice Marlohe’s Sévérine is such a textbook vampy seductress she’s borderline caricature. As she slinks around in her sheer, backless, evening gown, complete with obligatory plunging neckline and see-through panels, all dark lipstick and smoky eyes, you feel she might as well be walking round with a big fat sign on her head with WARNING: FEMME FATALE written on it in chunky black marker pen. Even more so once she takes a lazy drag from her cigarette in between breathy, cryptic exhortations about fear in her delightful French accent (it had to be French, n’est-ce pas?).

But then the writers introduce an element of complexity to her character, laying it on like a thin film of Nutella on a slice of bread (Tiger loaf, probs, seeded, a classy bread for a classy girl).

Bond spies a tattoo on her wrist – shock, horror! – from which he deduces that she is almost certainly the victim of exploitation, sold into prostitution from an early age and now chained to a madman.

The fear she talks about in her French accent makes it clear that her current employer/pimp is a bit of a nut job, and a scary one at that. Now, she is less femme fatale, more damsel in distress (yawn), the invisible placard on her forehead changed to read: “ABUSE VICTIM. PLEASE HELP.”

Ever the gentleman, Bond obliges, but not before creeping up on her in the shower first (er…) and indulging in a spot of sexy time.

All does not end well for Sévérine, unfortunately, like so many of her predecessors. Instead, she is tied up, beaten, gagged and set up as target practice for the men, William Tell style.

If you were in any doubt of her disposability before, you are disabused now, as Bond takes his aim at the shot glass propped unceremoniously on top of her head and misses, and baddie Silva’s bullet finds its final resting place in her head.

“What do you make of that, Mr Bond?” he says, or something to that effect, to which Bond quips, “That’s a waste of good scotch.”

I think we were supposed to laugh at that witty aside. I didn’t. Abuse victim shot in the head by her abuser, followed by tasteless joke at her expense? Ick.

#2 The Portrayal of the Villain

Ah, Silva. He’s a bit like The Joker crossed with Moriarty crossed with Boris Johnson (seriously, look at his HAIR, what is going on with that??). Mad as a box of frogs (or perhaps rats), Silva is Bond gone wrong – star agent turned rogue, consumed by his desire to visit vengeance upon his former employer, M, who left him to suffer and die at the hands of some very nasty people.

But, as with most antagonists in this type of adventure story, his similarities to the hero must be offset by some noticeable differences, just so we’re all clear how evil he is.

The fact that he’s as loopy as Thorpe Park’s Colossus is one.

And the introduction of sexual ambiguity is another. Silva clearly enjoys having the one and only James Bond tied to a chair, and not just for the satisfaction of having captured M’s new favourite.

As he caresses his nemesis’ shirt lapels, slowly loosening each button with the tenderness of a lover, caressing his bullet wound (no that’s not a euphemism) and stroking his thighs, it would appear that Silva’s tastes extend further than vampy French seductresses.

But this is also a man who repeatedly calls M “Mommy”. He has serious issues.

So the whole thigh stroking, undressing malarkey, what is that? Is it just a calculated piece of theatrics, intended to psyche out his opponent? Is it genuine physical attraction? Or plain, random loopiness?

My issue with this Nutella layer of complexity, however, is quite simple: when it comes to setting up your hero and your villain, there is a fine line between ambiguity and implicit moral judgment. It’s difficult to ignore the fact that Silva’s queerness is wrapped up in a package of anarchy, deviance and villainy, and it feels as though the writers have thrown this in to his character to help distinguish him from the virile, masculine, heterosexual hero, on the side of the good and the right, who prefers his love interests to be foxy and female, thank you very much, whatever he might say (“What makes you think this is my first time?” he tells Silva).

I really dislike this kind of shorthand (e.g. nonconformity and queerness = evil). It’s lazy and it’s dangerous, because the more of it there is, the more it helps to reinforce harmful stereotypes.

*

In conclusion, I wanted to love Skyfall, I really did. But these two things, which, I dunno, may seem minor to some, niggled at me persistently like a blasted bedbug bite. 

It’s a bit like meeting someone at a party – a really good-looking, smart, sophisticated, funny, charming person who makes you think, “Eh up, you’re a bit of alright!” – and then they go and ruin it all by doing something deeply unattractive like telling a Jimmy Saville joke or eating their canapés with their mouth wide open. 

And then, all you can see, all you can hear for the rest of the night, is the incessant grinding of their teeth and the grim wet smack of their tongue.