This film could’ve been alright if it just told it’s moderately interesting true story. Unfortunately, Ian Fleming is a character and it seems the filmmakers got distracted by making absolutely sure that the audience was aware that he was the writer who wrote James Bond. Every few scenes there’s a reference to it, or a crap joke about how he’s writing a novel, and there’s even a character named M.
At times I felt patronised. The plot isn’t complex, but it constantly reminds you of conversations that have happened only twenty minutes ago, and very basic details that you just heard but need to have in mind for other bits to make sense. I can’t think of another example of a film that trusts it’s audience so little with so little.
I’m not big on spy films at the best of times, but this was particularly irritating in multiple ways. Besides all of the usual wish fulfilment tropes and contrivances, this is essentially just two hours of substandard James Bond fan service. If I had known that before, I wouldn’t have bothered.
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