Bond Begins: 007 franchise reforged with blue steel

There's probably been more newsprint expended on Daniel Craig's debut as Bond than there has on any British movie for a very long time. Computer geeks set up hate campaigns based on the colour of Craig's hair and fans of Roger Moore's ironic eyebrow stamped their feet and screamed.

The truth is that from the devastating opening scene of this movie, Craig's blue-eyed Bond has no truck with the camp semi-comedy of the former films in the franchise. This is no wisecracking lounge lizard draped with lissom lovelies, but a vicious ex-commando with a steely gaze and an alpha male's instinct for survival. As we return to the very beginning of his story, this raw, newly-activated agent must learn to channel his anger and use his strength and intelligence against dangerous odds.

Although Q and his gadgets along with the tiresome secretary Miss Moneypenny are absent, many elements of the Bond mythos survive. M is still there, here displaying an almost maternal side in her concern for the fledgling death-dealer. There is plenty of violent spectacle and there are lots of lush locations. There are glamorous women, car chases and death-defying stunts.

What's missing is the kitsch humour and empty melodrama of the older films: where Casino Royale really differs from other action movies is in its unusual emotional depth. Craig's Bond doesn't just fall into bed with women, he falls in love with one the enigmatic but vulnerable Vesper Lynd, intelligently played by French actress Eva Green. This makes him vulnerable not a good idea when his mission requires him to bankrupt a master player in a high-stakes card game in Montenegro. Villain Le Chiffre (played with curious subtlety by Danish actor Mads Mikkelson) is financier to sundry international terrorists, whose money he must risk at the poker table following a stock market mishap.

It's possibly one of the tightest and most literate scripts Bond has ever seen, and the orchestral score from David Arnold adeptly points up the action. Initially playing with the main themes from rock god Chris Cornell's jaggedly dramatic song "You Know My Name", it gradually pulls in the familiar 007 theme; a shadowy counterpoint as Bond-the-man draws closer to darkness.

The movie's sexual content is understated; though the women are beautiful and Craig sizzles as only a lean, mean predator can, there are no explicit scenes and the love affair with Lynd is passionately tender rather than provocative. The violence, though slightly cut for the sake of a 12A certificate, is bone-crunchingly realistic, and the infamous torture scene when Bond is captured by Le Chiffre remains more or less as Ian Fleming wrote it. It's deeply difficult to watch and that's primarily because we have come to understand and relate to both victim and torturer not as icons or archetypes but as human beings, complete with flaws and fears. We're similarly invested in the tragedy of Bond's blooding as iconic secret agent: we watch him change from natural soldier to cold-blooded killer, and along the way we share in the breaking of his heart.

A successful reinvention? Certainly. The best Bond since Connery? Without a doubt.

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