How a Franchise That Never Invested in Collateral Rediscovered Humanity
The year is 2006, and James Bond is being rebooted again.
Bond, as the world knew the franchise then, was a pretty simple concept to get behind: the chronicles of a dashing, savvy spy. Each installment followed a safe but entertaining action film formula complete with flashy explosions, gun action, and maybe a sex scene to showcase all the elegance of the British icon’s spy life.
It wasn’t really known for its complexity, because Bond didn’t have to be complex for people to enjoy.
The farthest the franchise used to go in terms of commentary was maybe a half-hearted political allegory here and there. But, as with any film formula, audiences tire after enough repetitions. Even nostalgia wasn’t enough to continually engage the new generation.
The franchise was looking to explore something fresh, so the studio heads decided to recast and restart the narrative.
Although they’d recast the role multiple times before, this time was riskier. The new pick, Daniel Craig, didn’t fit the physical profile — dark hair and eyes versus blonde hair and blue eyes — of the previous actors or original book character. Thus, the ultimate test of Daniel Craig’s Bond would have to hinge upon his characterization and delivery.
Whatever he “lacked” in physical aspects was compensated for by heart. This Bond was given grief and consequence. He was gifted rage and revenge. He was granted humanity.
It’s this singular frame that elevates Casino Royale (2006) from a maybe okay film to a great one.
Frames, however, are all about context.
As far as the plot around it goes: right before this shower scene, Bond was attacked by one of Le Chiffre’s men in the hotel stairwell during one of the poker round breaks.
Vesper Lynd is an accountant that facilitated Bond’s entry into the high-stakes poker game and is there in person to ensure the investment — millions of pounds, by the way — pays off. She’s a normal person, like most of us.
[Though most of us are decidedly less sexy than Eva Green.]
Vesper is with him as they get attacked in the stairwell, and Bond has to defend them both from the assailants.
He ultimately strangles their attacker, and Vesper aids him by kicking the gun away from the man. Even though she wasn’t the one to land the killing blow, she was complicit in this man’s murder.
And she has to come to terms with that. She has to do it in a normal way because she’s not a spy. She never intended to be exposed to any of this violence.
Thus we get this incredibly raw frame of Vesper reacting in a really human way because death is horrifying, and she reminds Bond of that, after a long time of seeing people — including himself, Agent 007 — as numbers.
This frame in a word is consequence. It introduces this complex, staggering idea to an entire franchise in absolutely no words.
It’s devastatingly beautiful.
Previously, the formula of the Bond films lacked the time or effort to explore consequence. This isn’t surprising, though, since most action films struggle with this.
Mainstream audiences want the flashy explosions and exciting sounds in order to engage with the film. We want to see cars flip, but we don’t want to think about the people in these cars that will never see their families again.
We don’t want to think about the rehabilitation and years of therapy it would take for any normal human to recover from such events. Thinking about those details sours entertainment, which can only exist in the present for a short period of time.
Love interests and villains would die, but Bond never actively grieved for any of them. Since he had to move forward, there was no continuity in the spy missions. Until this frame in Casino Royale (2006).
Even the physical layout of the frame was designed to be powerful.
Bond discovers Vesper by opening the bathroom door. As a cinematographer, there are many ways to frame this, but they specifically chose this angle so the audience experiences this discovery in step with him. We see Vesper the same moment he does; we react when he does. Bond is, just like the rest of us, someone looking in from the outside.
She is huddled in a tiny ball; Vesper only takes up a portion of the space in the frame. She not only feels small internally pondering death and its reality; she also looks small externally, almost crushed by it.
And still she stands out, all dark colors against a pristine, almost clinical, unforgiving bathroom in harsh white. Her already deep purple dress darkens further under water, like clothes do in laundry. It not only draws the eye but also foreshadows her later drowning.
Vesper’s relationship with water has always been emotional and symbolic. It’s in this frame that seed is planted. It comes to full fruition at the end of the film when her death is a deliberate choice that means Bond’s safety: preserving that which is good in him, his remaining humanity.
The fact that Vesper’s also fully clothed just further emphasizes how unsettling this is. There’s an ugliness from how incongruous that is, but it’s all incredibly understated. It’s as if her world had tilted just a bit, not enough to be adjustable but just enough to shake something deep inside.
She is off, and so are we.
Vesper has to reconcile what she already knew in theory to what she just experienced empirically. She knew Bond was a spy. She knew that he sometimes had to kill people. She’s an accountant, and she knew exactly what her branch was financing.
But watching the life leave someone’s eyes right in front of you is wholly something else. Thus, Vesper is in a shower and wet but wearing clothes in a situation she shouldn’t be wearing them in.
In a single frame, nothing and everything has changed.
Death is terrifying, even as a mere concept. The idea of nothingness, of losing all that tethers you to life, of deteriorating from your best self? Existentially paralyzing. And then the reality of it is much, much worse.
Because death, in reality, is an open wound that will never heal. All your love was for someone who will never come back. Where is it supposed to go now?
Certainly not to another person. What’s the guarantee they won’t die and leave you as well? Death is an ending only for those who die. For those of us who are left behind, it’s scarring.
And the film says all of this wordlessly, unexpectedly. This is a departure from Bond as we know it, and it’s more than just a new actor interpreting the words.
It’s the highest form of art.
And the impact of this frame is felt not only in the rest of the film but also in subsequent films of the franchise.
At present, it’s Vesper struggling with accountability and the impermanence of life, but it exacts out of Bond a moment to pause and reexamine his own humanity with her too. This presents a turning point for him as well.
It’s the fire present in this frame that propels his revenge arc throughout Quantum of Solace (2008). He is so blinded by his rage over Vesper’s betrayal that Bond has lost almost all the respect for humanity that he garnered in this frame.
In Quantum, he kills indispensably to achieve his goals. And then some, because he doesn’t care anymore. He is so hurt by Vesper, and he is so hurt that he ever cared so much about her he no longer values life.
His rejection of her means a rejection of all the lessons she taught him.
The strength of what is established in this frame is necessary to be able to delve into the deep juxtaposition his mentality becomes as a direct result.
He isn’t only haunted by her. That’s far too one-sided. In Quantum, he’s haunted by her humanity, the humanity she’s been robbed of.
Vesper is even referred to again in Spectre (2015) by the villain in order to spark anger in Bond. Though a throwaway comment, he grieves this woman over and over again, because that is how grief works.
Grief ruminates on the emptiness left by that person, from missing the dead. Grief demands connection and Bond struggles with admitting the sincerity of his connection with her, so he takes time.
And grief isn’t something that ever leaves you, rather mutates into more tolerable forms as time goes on. Grief is a scar-turned wound, but wound nonetheless.
Bond before this movie was unfazed, utterly unaffected by death. And then after this frame, death is something that lingers in his every shadow, that is left in his wake always.
Bond recognizes he’s an instrument of death in its full devastation after this frame. Before he was killing targets and counting numbers. Now he kills people and rips families apart.
This is added continuity and consequence that transcends multiple films. Bond has to carry that lesson with him from now on. He has to learn from it, and all of that adds dimension to his character like never before.
The Bond franchise never invested in collateral damage since that came at the expense of action entertainment that thrived on the present for satisfaction. But when the filmmakers took a moment to slow down their story pace and reflect, a whole slew of potential popped up, potential that comprised the heart of Bond’s character: a deeply passionate and intelligent man actively struggling with arrogance, alcoholism, and trauma.
It was brilliant and real and understated. Consequently, the frame is breathtaking to date.
