“Do you expect me to talk?”
“No Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”
Goldfinger is the third, and for many, the best and most representative of the Bond films. It distilled all of the signature elements and delivered them in a package as cool, elegant and well-balanced as Bond’s signature martini. In popular culture, Goldfinger remains the epitome of Bond; classy, sexy, stylish, witty. It’s a blithe and luxurious piece of pop entertainment that’s had a surprisingly enduring appeal, showing up in everything from The Simpsons to Austin Powers to a scuzzy NYC band who named themselves Pussy Galore. The previous two entries (Dr. No and From Russia with Love) tinkered with the formula and though they had most of the key ingredients, {Goldfinger} did it bigger and bolder. It has become an indispensable part of the pop culture landscape and the Bond film to beat. Like England’s other great export of the ’60s, the Beatles, Bond became international and universal here rather than merely British. On an ironically related note, the one chink in the film’s cool, suave armor is when Bond says that drinking Dom ’53 at the wrong temperature is “as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs.” Whoops.
So what’s so great about Goldfinger? Simply put, it’s got everything: one of the best songs (belted out by Welshwoman Shirley Bassey, the only singer to do more than one theme), a memorable villain, classic lines (“Martini. Shaken, not stirred.”}, the tricked out Aston Martin, one of the best evil sidekicks (Oddjob, played by an Olympic medalist), a clever scheme, a laser beam, some great sets by Ken Adams, a potent title, Sean Connery at his most assured, and, of course, a dead, naked girl covered in gold paint (one of the iconic images of the decade) and Pussy Galore. The name still provokes and makes you wonder how they got away with it. There would be better opening sequences, granted, as this just involves Bond blowing things up, but it gives you that patented mix of sex, sadism and opulence. He unzips a wetsuit to reveal a white tuxedo, lights a cigarette as an explosion rocks the bar, kisses the girl, sees the killer’s reflection in her eye, and dispatches the bad guy with a lamp in the bathtub and a one liner: “Shocking. Positively shocking.” Cue Shirley Bassey’s blaring, brassy over the top theme song and you’re got a pretty bang-up introduction.
The credits use clips from the previous films, something that will be repeated in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and are not as strong as in later entries. The plot is relatively simple and revolves around a kind of cat and mouse (or cat and cat) game between Bond and Goldfinger; Bond makes him lose at cards and beds his girl, Goldfinger kills the girl, Bond beats him at golf, Goldfinger takes him captive, etc. Despite its aura of adult pleasures (sex, bespoke suits, champagne, swanky hotels), there’s always been a small adolescent component to Bond (and he is the rare hero who has cross-generational appeal) that emerges in these scenes. Bond treats much of it as a lark. He even spends a good chunk of the time as a prisoner of Goldfinger and it’s to the film’s credit that it’s still so buoyant and entertaining. It may move slowly by contemporary standards, but that’s part of its old fashioned charm. The action scenes are concentrated and stylish, but they’re not the sole reason for the film.
I think part of the success of early Bond films is that they get the tone right; they’re directed with panache (by Guy Hamilton here) and humor and Connery’s got a constant wink in his eye and a spring in his step, but he’s also got some edge, something most post-Connery Bonds lacked. The filmmakers are familiar with the conventions and clichés of the genre (one that they pretty much invented) and approach them with a tongue-in-cheek spirit that turns the whole enterprise into a kind of grand, robust pop art comic book. In a Sight and Sound review, Penelope Houston wrote, “There is an assumption, which you find, at quite the other end of the spectrum in Godard films, that we all know the clichés and can have a little fun with them.”
The entirety of Goldfinger is executed with great gusto and care for detail, as well as an effortlessness that most subsequent efforts would struggle to recapture. It’s immensely enjoyable. The big ending shoot-up, with a countdown to destruction and hordes of anonymous, identically clad and disposable minions, would become de rigueur for the series and for many action movies. And what to say about former Avengers actress Honor Blackman’s tough, confident Pussy Galore? A literal roll in the hay quickly changes her allegiances, which is Bond’s main contribution. Incidentally, in the book she’s a lesbian. And, naturally, it ends with him and a woman pre-coitus. The credits promise he’ll return in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but the next film would be the spectacularly successful, but somewhat disappointing Thunderball. Director Hamilton would do three more Bond films, but only one more with Connery. Goldfinger remains a high-water mark of ’60s pop escapism and entertainment that’s achieved certain timelessness. Penelope Gilliatt summed up its charms in a 1964 review. “Goldfinger belongs absolutely to our period. So does the command of technology, the stylish brutality, the wit and the nerveless treachery. . .(it creates) an atmosphere that is comic, expert, blessedly derisive and uniquely odious all at the same time.”
by Lukas Sherman
