The new Bond is way better

 
For Christmas, my son gave me a DVD of the 1967 version of Casino Royale, the David Niven/Ursula Andress comic send-up. Last night I finally got around to watching.

Who do I sue to get back that two hours of my life?

Seriously, how did so many immensely talented people get together and turn out such a pile of steaming crap? Granted, it was at the peak of the Sixties, when ‘psychedelic’ was considered cool … but there was absolutely no part of this appalling production that wasn’t simply awful.

Even though parodies aren’t entirely my cup of tea (I’ve never been able to understand the appeal of Monty Python, for instance), I’ve watched and enjoyed several, and recognized the quality of others even when I didn’t particularly enjoy them. But this … forget the faux-acid-flashback sequences, you’d actually have to be doing acid — in massive quantities, by direct IV — to take any pleasure from this self-indulgent vomit-splatter of wasted talent.

I’ll wait a few days (or maybe a few weeks, just to be sure), then re-watch the newer Daniel Craig version, to flush the last faint traces of reeking memory out of my brain.