Daniel Craig, once more unto the breach as Bond. Given the title and Craig's loudly trumpeted loathing of the role (so what's with that co-producer credit?) you can imagine what he got written into his contract and how it goes. Somewhat strangely Phoebe Waller-Bridge got a credit for the script but nary a flea is to be seen or heard. Co-writer/director Cary Joji Fukunaga has form for the first (brilliant) season of True Detective, so overall one could be forgiven expectations.
I have no memory of what came before which perhaps fatally hindered my comprehension. Much of it made no sense to me; the plot has forced and farcical timing which results in characters arriving just after they may have been salient. It's quite long, and some sections look like a first-person shooter. The dialogue is often risible. But wait, did I get this right: Bond driving a Prado managed to outdo two, no three, Range Rovers? — the latter being the unaffordable Platonic ideal of a 4WD, I'd just been told. It would've been good if Naomie Harris, Ben Whishaw and Christoph Waltz had more to do, with less of Léa Seydoux and Rami Malek. Lashana Lynch got jibbed. Everyone was just going through the motions.
A. O. Scott. Michael Wood must've been watching something else, as were many other reviewers. Perhaps they're trying to drum up business for the cinemas, and yet none deem a large screen necessary.