When you were young and your heart was an open book, You used to say live and let live
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did)
But if this ever changing world in which we live in
Makes you give in and cry,
Say live and let die!
Pimpmobiles. Alligators. A trip through Harlem. Voodoo. James smoking cigars and knocking back bourbon. Blaxploitation. George Martin. Tarot Cards. Snakes. A notable lack of Q. The City of New Orleans. Paul McCartney and Wings.
“That’s just as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs.” – 007 in Goldfinger
Somebody’s out to prove Roger Moore ain’t your daddy’s James Bond.
On the calendar, 007 entered the ‘70s with Sean Connery’s last official entry, Diamonds are Forever (1971), but it wasn’t until two years later that the shift of the decade really affected cinema’s most popular secret agent. Some may argue Live and Let Die tries too hard to distance itself from the previous seven entries, but I’d argue back that a Bond film can never try too hard to deviate from the established formula. Indeed, when we identify or discuss a Bond film, we usually grab on to an aspect that sets it apart from the rest: Live and Let Die -- isn’t that the one with all voodoo? On Her Majesty’s Secret Service -- isn’t that the one with the lame guy playing Bond? Diamonds are Forever -- the one with the creepy gay henchmen? Never Say Never Again -- the one with Kim Basinger? A View to a Kill -- the one where Moore wore Depends?
Aside from the obvious window dressing, what really sets Live and Let Die apart from the rest is that it never stagnates and the plot is anything but convoluted. Most Bond flicks manage to fall into a stretch where the eyes glaze and the movie going mind just wants the damn thing to get on with it. Could be due to expository plot developments, or an excessive chase scene, or simply a tedium-ridden conversation. These afflictions are absent in Live and Let Die. There’s always something interesting going on, it’s got a streamlined, straightforward plot (centering largely on drug trafficking), and an engaging cast of characters. Even the lengthy speedboat chase in Act III -- which threatens to tip the scales -- is broken up due to the presence of the redneck Cajun sheriff, J. W. Pepper (Clifton James) – a caricature who by all logic shouldn’t work, and yet does (enough so that he was brought back in The Man with the Golden Gun).
Les Girls: Nabbing the role of lead Bond girl must seem exciting for an unknown actress, but as has been proven time and again, it rarely leads to a big time career. Jane Seymour is one of a handful of actresses to buck that trend and with good reason: Solitaire ranks high on the list of Bond’s classiest ladies – she’s arguably even the heart of the picture. The character isn’t necessarily written with a huge amount of depth, yet that very simplicity makes her complex. In a movie full of charlatanistic voodoo, she stands out as the lone figure possessing the psychic ability to see into the future. Additionally, she differs from the Bond girl flock by sporting ornate, body-covering costumes that contrast with the oft-expected “Bond girl in a bikini” mold…not to mention the fact that she’s a virgin…until James enters her, ummm, life.Also on hand is Gloria Hendry’s Rosie Carver, marking Bond’s first filmic foray into the wilds of jungle fever. Unfortunately for Rosie, that’s about all she was good for as she not only betrays James, but also screams an awful lot until somebody shuts her up.
Zee Villain: Yaphet Kotto’s double act of Kananga & Mr. Big was quite a departure for a Bond baddie -- after a decade of destruction from SMERSH, SPECTRE and Blofeld, here’s a guy who isn’t out to take over the world, only to keep his vast opium operation afloat whilst continuing his duties as dictator of the fictitious island republic of San Monique. His fatal flaw is his mistaken belief in Solitaire’s ultimate devotion to him and when the issue sidetracks his attention, it costs him his life. There’s actually something quite noble and even borderline romantic about Kananga, and Kotto turns in a suave, believable performance as the dictator, whilst delivering a pimptastically over the top Mr. Big. Admittedly, Kananga’s departure from this mortal coil is one of the most absurd in the franchise and it’s in Bond’s final confrontation with Kananga where the film falters by channeling--on several counts-- the silliness of Austin Powers some 25 years ahead of time. (Note to Bond writers: Villains do not make for good balloons.)
Zee Henchmen: Alongside Yaphet Kotto is Julius Harris’ Tee Hee, one of my favorite Bond henchmen. Well spoken and imposing, it’s a credit to Harris’ talent that Tee Hee’s trademarks -- a sinister chuckle accentuated by a metal arm & hooked hand -- dovetail nicely in the scene where he traps Bond on a tiny island surrounded by hungry gators. He reveals that the missing arm is due to carelessness with one of the beasts; it’s an anecdote that’s shaped his sense of humor rather than embittered him into a freak. Each time Tee Hee appears, he overshadows the other players, which is no mean feat given Die’s excellent cast. The filmmakers even see fit to bring him back for the old “henchman inexplicably attacks Bond one last time despite the bossman’s death” scene.
The other noteworthy heavy here is Baron Samedi (Geoffrey Holder of 7-UP fame), a character who falls somewhere between villain and henchman. His purpose is unclear, although he seems to function primarily as a means of keeping the San Monique natives in check through fear of supernatural repercussions. The part mostly consists of Holder’s trademark laugh, some bizarre face paint, and a cool dance sequence or two (choreographed by Holder himself). I said Solitaire was the only figure possessing that voodoo that you do, but maybe Samedi does as well. His image is the last we see as the credits roll, despite what appeared to be a very certain death.
Tuneage & Credits Sequence: What can be said about the Paul McCartney and Wings opus other than it’s a great fucking piece of music that’s stood the test of time and over the years has practically overshadowed the movie itself. It’s every bit as revisionist as necessary, and while it was clearly a no-brainer to ask a Beatle to write a Bond tune, credit must be given to the decision to tap the talents of a white Englishman rather than a black American (one wonders what Jimi Hendrix might’ve done with those four words?). Add in George Martin’s tight score and the music here is almost half the movie.
Where all the white women at?!?! With the credits sequence, staple designer Maurice Binder goes with the flow and dishes up energetic fire and brimstone-laden visuals coupled with loads of African-American hotness (indeed, I think only a single white chick makes an appearance, and you don’t even see her face). I wonder what Bond devotees must have thought back in 1973 while watching these credits against (Beatle be damned) a genuine rock tune? How did the franchise survive Live and Let Die’s jarring tonal shift? There must only be one answer to that question…
Bond, James Bond: Mah bud Bart recently referred to Roger Moore as “The Love Boat of James Bonds” - an assertion at which I laughed mightily. Anyone who loves Moore’s Bond like I do must also be well aware of his many shortcomings. What makes his freshman outing all the more spectacular is that he displays almost none of the cheese that led to his eventual heckling—or at the very least it’s corralled into something less obtrusive than what it grew into. Maybe the only real way to see this is to divorce yourself from the rest of his tenure; pretend that Live and Let Die is the only Moore/Bond flick you've seen and what I'm saying might come through.
Jeanne once interviewed Moore and, of course, the topic of Bond surfaced in the process. Per her recollection, he said that the only way he could approach the part was to do something entirely different from what Sean Connery had done. Goes without saying: Mission accomplished.
Die’s supplementary disc showcases Bond 1973: The Lost Documentary. At its start, Bond producers Albert Broccoli and Harry Saltzman confess that they not only wanted Moore for Connery’s one-film hiatus (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service), but also for (shock!) Bond’s very first outing, Dr. No – Rog was available on neither occasion, presumably due to The Saint (shades of Brosnan and Remington Steele?). Now I’m by no means suggesting that Moore would have made for a better ‘60s-era 007, but assuming the above is true, you gotta ponder the Bond he would have created back in ’62 sans the Connery mold to play against.
Moore is fantastic in Live and Let Die and unlike George Lazenby before him, helped prove James Bond would return without Connery. His performance differs from the word go, when Bond is shown in his (London-based?) flat, bedding an Italian agent: M pays a visit and Bond gets really nervous that his boss might discover his hoochie coo bedroom antics. See, Connery would’ve just offered M his sloppy seconds. After that it’s Bond’s incongruous journey through Harlem featuring all manner of classic bits. My fave? The goofy-yet-perfect moment of Bond purchasing a stuffed snake in a voodoo shop – he requests it to be gift-wrapped “lengthwise”. Dunno why, but that gets me every time. Eventually Bond meets Mr. Big, Tee Hee & Solitaire and the writing is on the wall: he’s going to steal the babe from the bad guys, foil their (in this case) not so evil plans and make everything right. But does he?
Despite his obvious success, I’m not sure James does entirely right by Solitaire. She was born into who she is and he fails to consider (or even care about) her family ties to Kananga. He steals her away from the only life she’s ever known, takes her virginity (along with her only sense of self), and presumably sends her packing after the end credits roll. Of course it’s asking too much of the series to give updates on every character from every movie…yet I can’t help but wonder where Solitaire ended up after meeting James Bond. She seemed totally ill equipped to deal with American culture and had almost zero social skills; everything she’d ever been about was ripped away due to this intrusive figure that fucked and tossed her aside.
A sense of pathos hounds the flawed James Bond like stink on shit, and often there’s more to these movies than meets the eye. Dig deeper than the surface allows: Live and Let Die sets up a central character even more complex than the thuggish rogue who preceded him.
