Bond is back, but looking a little worse for wear. Having notched up twenty-something films so far, divided into around half a dozen reboots, the franchise based on the novels of the late Ian Fleming has been chugging along dependably for more than 50 years, proving the most enduring film series of its kind. Each reboot has brought us a fresh face—although perhaps not literally in the case of the rather craggy-visaged Mr Daniel Craig, the most recent iteration of the superspy—and new adventures in new lands featuring exotic women, nifty gadgets and out-of-their-minds nemeses. But the sort of excitement that was once no doubt associated with new offerings from the franchise has dimmed of late; with the likes of Jason Bourne, Ethan Hunt and Jack Bauer running around these days, our action-espionage options have widened considerably. James Bond, as something of a “Cold War relic”—M’s words, not mine—has understandably struggled to stay

relevant in these changed times, a struggle he appears to be losing slowly but surely. And that drop in momentum couldn’t be more obvious than in the series’ latest, Spectre, directed by Sam Mendes.

It’s the Day of the Dead in Mexico City, fitting for what Mr Bond is here to do. Graceful as a gazelle, he winds his way through costumed crowds, past swanky hotel rooms and across rooftops, swiftly blowing up a building housing some baddies before grappling with one of them in a moving helicopter, ending with our hero securing a certain object from his adversary, and the latter being kicked out the door. What’s all this about, then? Bond, you see, has orders from beyond the grave: his recently deceased superior, M (Judi Dench, much missed) has left him clues related to a criminal organisation called Spectre, and Bond mustdismantle it post-haste.

News of his antics in Mexico, however, has reached MI6 headquarters in London, and new M (Ralph Fiennes) is not happy. The poor man already has enough trouble on his plate: a patronising young intelligence bureaucrat, C (Andrew Scott from Sherlock), has been trying to convince the higher ups that the future of national security lies in drones and expansive global electronic surveillance, and that the secret-agent Double-O programme no longer serves its purpose. In light of this, M—not really in the mood for more bad press—instructs 007 to keep a low profile, going so far as to place a tracking device on him, a “post-Mexico insurance policy” as the bespectacled R&D whiz Q (Ben Whishaw) calls it.

But intravenous implants can’t stop a determined Bond. A little twisting of the arm and soon, Q and other associate Moneypenny (Naomie Harris) are helping him go rogue—even stealing one of MI6’s rides—so as tozip across Rome, the Austrian Alps and Tangier to find Spectre’s mysterious in-charge (Christoph Waltz), all while (duh!) seducing a few women (Monica Bellucci, Léa Seydoux) along the way. But the mission will prove costlier and much more personal than Bond has bargained for, and will involve a trip back into a painful past he has always been loathe to bring out.

This interest in Bond’s history and his motivations is something that has been indulged in earnest by the Craig oeuvre in the series, no doubt an attempt on the part of filmmakers like Mendes (who also directed Spectre’s immediate predecessor, 2012’s Skyfall) to extend a certain tortured, tragic quality—long in-vogue in the superhero realm—to our protagonist. Of course, one can’t condemn them for wanting to render more sympathetic a character who often felt too polished, too smooth, too suave for his own good. It’s a logical direction to go in given that Bond’s particular brand of martini-swilling, lady-killing (re: misogynistic), tailored-to-the-tee machismo feels increasingly outdated these days, like something to be parodied in an Old Spice commercial. The casting of Craig in the lead role was said to be part of that new agenda—gone was Pierce Brosnan’s slick smarmy grin; the new Bond would be rougher, more somber, less of a smug upper-class rascal and therefore more relatable.

That, though, is easier said than done. While the recent cycle in the series has certainly shifted attention from glossy surfaces to more personal examinations, I would argue that the approach has been very hit-and-miss. Either because filmmakers haven’t gone far enough with the gritty reimagining or because it turns out 007 just doesn’t need to be saddled with a conventional tragic backstory—I vote the latter—the films have turned out this strange mix of nostalgic longing for classic, campy Bond touchstones and a desire for new, darker depths, neither of which are followed through adequately. That unwieldy combination is in plain view in Spectre too, where we’re baited towards a climax that is meant to tie in all of Bond’s previous adventures (the last four, anyway) and truly lay him bare, but instead of an explosive reveal, what we get is a conventional, disappointing whimper of an explanation.

Spectre is not without its charms, however: cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema (of Interstellar fame) is on point, serving up some gorgeous, sumptuous images, and the action set-pieces are impressive—that opening sequence in Mexico City in particular—though the multiple car chases, albeit well-presented, can get repetitive. The cast proves reliable enough; Fiennes and Whishaw both make the most of their minimal time on screen, and Seydoux, whom you might remember from 2013’s Blue is the Warmest Color, has an appealinggravitas about her despite being givensome laughably clichéd lines. As for our lead, I’m never quite sure what to say about the Craig-as-Bond stint—he’s possibly the most joyless of the

big names who’ve played the spy, lips perpetually pursed, eyes icy, but I can’t say whether that’s a function of the script or the actor himself. Maybe both. And Waltz, otherwise a fantastic performer, is so underwhelming here it’s not even funny; it might be a role he could’ve done in his sleep—the grinning, chatty evildoer—but it’s just not as effective as you’d expect.

Spectre also tries, in the spirit of the new post-Assange-Snowden era, to tackle the issue of data-mining—basically your good ol’ Privacy versus Security conundrum. Now, fair enough, this a legitimate contemporary concern, but it’s been shoe horned into so many films of late, and without any attempt to offer anything more interesting or insightful than a tired “information is power”spiel, which Mendes is also guilty of, that it drains the proceedings of urgency.

Fans will mostly likely enjoy this new instalment, particularly since there has been a conscious effort to incorporate bits of classic Bond iconography and various other references to previous films precisely aimed at lovers of the series. But for those of us who haven’t ever fully succumbed to Mr Bond’s charms, this isn’t the one to convert us. There’s talk that this might be Craig’s last as the spy, in which case, we’re no doubt looking at another reboot. If this is unavoidable, I hope that they decide to bring back the fun, playful, irreverent Bond of old and ditch the plodding backstory.