Move over, Blofeld. James Bond has finally fallen prey to an insidious global conspiracy… to replace all male spaces with bitter feminist battleaxes. A loser hag of a failed screenwriter and darling of all 32 “critics” who watched her BBC show has been picked to co-write the new James Bond movie script… to ensure the feelz de wimminz are respected.
Phoebe Waller-Bridge to make James Bond’s women feel ‘real’
9 May 2019
The Fleabag and Killing Eve creator is part of the writing team for the 25th film in the spy franchise.
Bond – played by Daniel Craig – has been criticised down the years for its objectification of its leading ladies.
That’s the critics talking. The fans have instead been talking about Bond’s new coalburning habit:
I had hoped that Halle Berry would turn out to be a one-time incident. Note that both white women have that part in her hair that’s only one step away from the boner-busting Skrillex:
Waller-Bridge said her contribution would be “mainly about making them feel like real people, you know?”
Speaking on The Hollywood Reporter’s Awards Chatter Podcast, she said: “It’s really exciting. The film they’ve got is such an exciting story. It’s just been a joy to work on.”
They already wrote the story and are retconning wokeness into it? Who gave actor Daniel Craig creative control? Actors are not paid to think! They’re paid to make faces in front of a camera.
The end began with Casino Royale. I’m always nervous about a reboot but that film felt very much like what a Bond movie should be. Until the ending, when Bond walks away from a successful mission to find Twu Wuv with his female interest du jour. It felt tacked on to a completed storyline and at the time, I didn’t understand why they did it.
Now in hindsight, the powerful man falling in love with a woman to the point of serving her and being consumed by grief when he loses her is a trope of Original Sin.
I saw the movie after that and for the first time ever, James Bond was… forgettable. That had never happened before. There was no conspiracy, no absurd commentary on current events, just Bond grief-stricken over the woman he lost in the previous movie. Come on, 007, just grab another girl off the girl tree, as the PUAs say, and do something interesting.
Asked whether she would bring some of the “female, feminist humour” evident in her two signature shows to date, she added: “Well, we’ll see, we’ll see what I can sneak in.”
This is the tail end of the conspiracy. The end result. But how did it begin? To help answer that, Robert Shrimsley, the editorial director of the Financial Times, gives us insight into the conspiracy’s thought processes while publicly tearing up his man card.
Decaf latte, frothed not foamed: a James Bond for our times
by Robert Shrimsley, 3 May 2019
I must confess that I’ve never really got James Bond, even before I understood that the movies were passé, predictable and paleolithic. I can see the films had a certain 1960s appeal, a throwback to a time when men were men and women were spray-painted gold and left to suffocate.
How can you not appreciate James Bond? Hot guns! Hot chicks! Hot cars! Hot dice! British accents! One-liner putdowns! Saving the world by breaking the rules! How can any man not relate to such visceral, hormonal appeal?
Even in the 1970s, they were already long, shallow and devoid of storyline. They were a few iconic bars of a soundtrack; “Bond, James Bond”; “shaken, not stirred” and any number of other self-reverential clichés. As a child, I somehow could never muster the sense of anticipation a new Bond film was supposed to engender, even in an era when fine food, fast cars and fast women were not widely available — well, not to me anyway.
As a child, you weren’t supposed to understand the appeal. Boys aren’t men. But then you became a man… and you still don’t enjoy James Bond boinking hot chicks? I understand if you don’t allow yourself to enjoy the hot chicks because religion or principle… but you say you don’t get it at all?
What’s wrong with you?
It was not as if my life was one long cavalcade of Bond-like sophistication. Fine dining was the Angus Steakhouse in Wembley Hill, where the wine waiters wore burgundy blazers and served a very palatable Tafelwein. A fast car was my mate’s Capri and, as for fast women, well, perhaps I should have worn more Denim aftershave.
Sour grapes… no, that’s not the real reason he doesn’t like Bond. Either he’s a manling, in the literal sense that his masculinity was somehow arrested in development, or he’s a manling, in the figurative sense that he’s so eager to please women that he sees James Bond as an example of everything wrong with healthy men, or he’s a Pharisee who hates watching other men have fun.
Man up, Robert, and learn to enjoy James Bond before it’s too late.
So the sight of Daniel Craig posing with a bevy of Bond beauties to promote the latest movie would not ordinarily have set me aquiver with anticipation. But then I read the news that this was going to be a Bond film for the #MeToo era and now, frankly, I’m interested. The presence of Fleabag and Killing Eve writer Phoebe Waller-Bridge only adds to the sense of excitement.
It’s too late. Robert gets excited by watching lesbians wallowing in their egos. The homo meter is redlining “Fairy Fag”.
Even so, you have to wonder what a Bond stripped of misogyny and casual violence brings to the party. “The name’s Bond, James Bond, and this is my assistant Susan, who will be accompanying me on all private conversations with the ladies so you can be sure I won’t try to force myself on you in the way that we both know you want. Barman, I’d like a decaf latte, frothed not foamed — oh, and hang on, I’ve got a loyalty card.”
Heh. Even this mondo soyboy realizes how pathetic the previous paragraph was. So, like a Cuckservative, he mocked himself then doubled down regardless.
I’m sure Waller-Bridge can do something with him if she’s allowed to do more than pep up the dialogue of the female characters. Killing Eve’s Villanelle was a masterpiece in homicidal humour. It must be possible to construct an all-action hero, attractive to women, who doesn’t talk and stalk like the office perv at the Christmas party. Still it’s a challenge.
Only one man on the planet is thinking about office perverts when he talks about James Bond. That man is Robert Shrimsley.
The Fleabag writer may start off thinking that perhaps the bad guy can be a sleazy film big shot who forces himself on beautiful women and discards them afterwards, and then she’ll remember, oh no, hang on — that’s the good guy.
Those poor, helpless women, flinging themselves onto the pike of a casually murderous master of intrigue. How dare James Bond be sexy! How dare he order vodka martinis instead of soy lattes! How dare he not give up his life to please his latest conquest… oh, okay. The ending of Casino Royale (Remake) now makes sense.
On the other hand, a #MeToo Bond, a tongue-tied gent more in the mould of, say, Hugh Grant in Four Weddings, might be closer to something men like me can work with. It’s a more attainable, more metrosexual form of masculinity. “Now listen here Blofeld, in the immortal words of David Cassidy . . . no wait a minute, that’s not right.”
How can I mock a guy who begs for “attainable metrosexuality” in his action heroes? Is anybody taking him seriously? If these cultural arsonists weren’t in control of big piles of other peoples’ money then this global gender-neutering conspiracy wouldn’t exist.
If I had money to invest in entertainment, I wouldn’t mess with the James Bond formula. I’d pump out Bond-style movies constantly and let the critics sneer at me all the way to the bank. Maybe some of my movies wouldn’t even have scripts. I’d just collect all the stuntmen in a room, choreograph a 75-minute stunt reel and set them loose in a harem for the “climax”. The bloopers would go in the credits as a special bonus.
Jackie Chan, I miss you.
But there is a bigger problem. The entire notion of James Bond is clichéd and archaic. It’s not just the obvious issues such as attitudes to women, which, when you think about it, are not much better than the idea of icing prostitutes in Grand Theft Auto. Its vision of manly perfection no longer rings true. The Ian Fleming sense of sophistication is utterly outmoded.
Bond’s success was based in part on bumper budgets that delivered old-world glamour and over-engineered action. In their day they were the biggest show in town and so Bond was the pinnacle of sophistication. Now we know that Macau casinos are the height of kitsch not cool, no more the zenith of chic than the Burj Dubai is a World Heritage site. As for Eton, have you looked at parliament recently?
Some of the more recent films tried harder — Skyfall was not bad if you can pass over the treatment of one particular female character. But Bond has gone from being a recognisable and, I guess, aspirational stereotype to being little more than a cartoon character in an era of Marvel comic-book movies with which it cannot compete. For all the gadgetry, Bond is seriously analogue.
Boob-Thor cannot compete with a turkey sandwich.
But perhaps Fleabag’s Waller-Bridge, who notably wrapped up her show after just two series, can bring the Bond franchise the one thing it really needs: a conclusion.
Boom. First Disney killed Star Wars, now the likes of Shrimsley want to kill James Bond. Part of twisting men into women is destroying the icons of masculinity that remind us of what it means to be a man. And what better way to do that than the Disney way?
The conspiracy is real.
Here’s Phoebe Waller-I’m-not-affiliated-with-my-husband-Bridge:
Looks like she’s already had a close call with a giant laser.
One of the above is a feminine action hero. The other is a disgustingly androgynous emotion vampire.
That’s what we need, James Bond fighting a vampire to teach young men how to handle such monsters: two to the body, one to the face then chop the neck to be sure. Mustn’t forget the one-liner! “Let’s make it a dinner date next time. I’ll bring stakes.”
Phoebe both wrote and starred in the BBC series “Fleabag”. Rotten Tomatoes says this:
A sexually-liberated, irritable woman navigates modern life in London in this comedy. Based on Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s play of the same name.
…And gives it a 100% approval rating. I found the following review on the second and so-far final season. Suffice to say, that approval rating is bogus.
‘Fleabag’ Season 2 Review: Phoebe Waller-Bridge Ascends to New Heights in Divine Amazon Sequel
By Ben Travers, 7 May 2019
“Fleabag” reestablishes itself as one of television’s elite series well before an insightful therapist (played by the all-powerful Fiona Shaw) asks Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s eponymous Bag, Flea if she wants to “fuck God.” But I dare anyone to imagine a more idyllic setup, let alone produce a story that can actually live up to it. That’s what the “Killing Eve” scribe and future Bond writer has done in the brilliant follow-up and savvy update to her 2016 breakout. Think about it: an emotional paradox in which the lead protagonist of a TV show wants to… fuck… God? And does she? Does she literally want to sleep with Him? Is she angry with Him? Is it both?
I think Phoebe wasn’t acting when she cast herself as a sexually damaged, priest-corrupting blasphemer.
So many questions arise from the existential proposition, and Waller-Bridge manages to answer each one with the playful flick of her eyebrows or a fervent, frustrated frown.
Human sexuality is so well-defined by God, as any half-competent theologian can explain, that there’s nothing about this “existential proposition” to explore.
“Fleabag” evolves gracefully in Season 2, mowing through its six half-hour episodes with an efficiency rarely seen in prestige TV and a responsible creativity to be admired.
That explains how this feminist-porn series lasted two full seasons: a season is six half-hour episodes.
[At the season’s beginning], she reveals it’s been well over a year since Season 1 ended. Fleabag hasn’t seen her sister Claire or her husband Martin in that time. The two are still steaming over Martin’s attempt to kiss Fleabag, in part because the guilty party is still insisting Fleabag tried to kiss him.
I just lost my male audience’s interest. Any man who thinks men and women are the same has never tried to watch a soap opera.
Meanwhile, the sisters’ father is still seeing their Godmother, and the unwelcome partners are hosting the dinner to celebrate their engagement.
I can see the new movie’s title: James Bond Has Two Mommies.
Fleabag insists she’s doing fine — both to her family and the audience watching. Her cafe is doing well, after securing the small business loan at the end of last season, and she’s no longer using sex as a distraction from her pain. …
Or so she thinks. The curveball of the meal arrives in the family priest, simply referred to (like so many critical “Fleabag” characters) as The Priest (and played with a rascal’s jittery charms by Andrew Scott.)
Talentless hacks have trouble with character names. I was going to give Phoebe a pass because Fleabag (a seedy, rundown hotel or other lodging place) is so apropos a descriptor of her soul.
New to the parish and the priesthood, the Catholic father will mark his officiant’s debut at Godmother and Dad’s wedding. But Fleabag is smitten early. Surprised by his frank honesty and less-than-holy demeanor (he drinks, smokes, and even swears), Fleabag knows she’s in trouble well before her therapist asks the pointed question: “Do you really want to fuck the priest, or do you want to fuck God?”
What the Hell kind of train wreck writing is this? How did this twat get selected to co-write James Bond #25? Can Daniel Craig not find a better mistress than a flat-chested dyke who only fucks to dull her pain, AS SEEN ON TV?
This movie script won’t need an editor. It’ll need an exorcist. Or…