JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

“Vodka martini.”
“Shaken or stirred?”
“Do I look like I give a damn.”

Wow it’s like they read my blog. Venice, the fabulous Eva Green, and a bloodthirsty thug. The new Bond movie Casino Royale works for me. Here’s a 007 who enjoys killing (What’s the point of having the license if you don’t use it?). Unlike other Bonds who seemed more concerned about not wrinkling their suits, this one gets down and dirty. He runs and runs and runs, beats people to death with his bare hands, and looks naked even when fully-clothed. Every review I’ve read notes how it’s Daniel Craig’s Bond, not the girl, who recreates the famous Ursula Andress rising out of the ocean scene in Dr. No—here’s to objectifying the male body, and let me tell you, he doesn’t need a bikini top. When the scene plays you can hear the old ladies in the theatre crossing themselves—Daniel Craig is an occasion for sin. (The men in the theatre got girly; the gays got so girly they broke on through to the other side and became hetero.)

The Bond franchise has become a joke post-Connery; this year’s model brings it back to Ian Fleming. And we’ve always liked Daniel Craig or as Ige and I call him, Craggy. The French have an expression for those looks: jolie-laid, beautiful-ugly. Loved him as Ted Hughes in Sylvia; as Gwyneth suffered we said, “Get out of the frame, woman, go stick your head in the oven.” Ige has memorized Layer Cake, and while viewing Munich I was distracted by Craggy’s perfectly-formed ass (which Eva Green’s character notes in Casino Royale). Craggy’s Bond sweats in the line of work, and we would pay to watch him sweat.

Here’s The Guardian getting giggly over Craig, and The New Yorker getting all girly.