Take #22: SPECTRE

What probably happened was that, after the Mission Impossible and Transporter franchises caught the public's imagination, Barbara Broccoli hemmed and hawed and concluded that there was too much competition, so the Bond films needed a complete makeover.

So, just one girl at a time, not a bevy of brilliant bikini bimbettes; a look at Bond the man, rather than Bond the spy; Oscar-quality cinematography rather than merely exotic locales; anti-villains cast in villain roles - more avuncular than menacing; male singers doing the theme songs; dark, stark and broody rather than light and entertaining.

And 146 minutes long as against the standard fare of 90-120.

Sam Mendes is undoubtedly a gifted director, but getting him to do two Bond films is like asking Spielberg to do remakes of Hotel Transylvania and Kung Fu Panda. A clear case of overkill.

No thanks, Barbara. Spectre was more of an Apparition. We don't want Bond hobnobbing with Moneypenny at his house or facing bad guys whom he addressed as Uncle in his youth. We'd like the punchy one-liners back, please, along with bright sunlight and beaches and less shadows and more chases and the usual mad schemer's plot for world domination. We also want more of the nutty sidekicks like Jaws and Odd Job. And yes, we quite liked the cats.

But we're good with both Ralph Fiennes as M and Naomi Harris as Moneypenny. And the women among us are, of course, really, REALLY good with Daniel Craig in his third essay as Bond, but I fancy the men preferred Roger Moore.

Be that as it may - I'm a James Bond fan, so I went ahead and saw this movie, just as I'll see the next one. But I feel I should caution you that watching a new James Bond film is now a habit that could become very easy to break.

And oh, about that kiss: don't blink; you'll miss it.