Chauvinism Is Forever

But everything is fetishized in the world of Bondage: guns, gadgets, martinis, cars. And no fetish object is given a bigger visual feel-up than Bond himself—represented in the Belcourt series, at the height of his studly, furry-chested virility, by Sean Connery, a beefcake who’s repeatedly served up with minimal garnish: bathing suits in the series’ first film, 1962’s Dr. No (showing July 5-7), and the wet dream Thunderball (July 26-28); a towel in 1964’s Goldfinger (July 19-21). To be sure, the sexual availability of women is just smirky amusement to this conquistador of Camelot-era machismo. Upon meeting Honor Blackman’s aptly named vixen in Goldfinger—Pussy Galore—Connery’s response is pure cocked-eyebrow delight: “I must be dreaming.”

If you can say anything positive of the gender dynamics present in Bond films, though, it’s that Bond is a complicated man who likes complicated women, and the Bond girls are complicated women who like complicated men. What usually goes unnoticed about the early Bonds is how much 007 exists as a woman’s plaything, a to-do item in her own agenda. Women in the Bond universe, especially the “bad” ones (like Luciana Paluzzi’s femme fatale in Thunderball), assert the same right to no-strings-attached sex as the protagonist. Perhaps more tantalizing are their unexplained backstories. Just the mystery of whatever brought them into James Bond’s orbit suggests a job, a role and a life beyond what tradition would dictate. Even before James Bond entered her universe, even before she arose from the surf in soaking-wet splendor, Dr. No’s ur-Bond girl Ursula Andress had to have a reason she kept that dagger stashed in her bikini.

Best of all, the Bond franchise genuinely cherishes the company of women—even allowing them, within its he-man fairyland, a small piece of the action. What sensible modern woman could possibly choose the wallflowery devotion of Iron Man’s Pepper Potts over the secret spy mission of Tatiana Romanova in From Russia With Love (July 12-14)? The problem isn’t the secretarial desk job; it’s having to play the fawning administrative assistant, holding out for my man to notice me in a backless evening gown—and even if he does, he’ll still retreat to his office of supertoys. (The difference between Bond and his protégé Tony Stark is that Bond seeks women out, and he doesn’t forget their names.)

Adventure, exotic locales and international intrigue—and the possibility of honest-to-God lusty romance—beat hand-wringing, doe-eyed devotion any day. You’ll even see the occasional Bond woman hold her own in a game of high-stakes cards, wield a dagger or pistol, or pilot a plane. Viewed in the context of the aforementioned cult-of-the-isolated-man superhero films, or Judd Apatow’s retrogressive manchild comedies, it’s novel that women are active presences at all.