Bond struck camp long ago, so it would seem pointless to complain about the dilution of Fleming's cruel stud into a smirking dinner-jacket with a crude line in double entendres. But the problem here is that the elements which act as consolation in late Bondage are missing. Chiefest of these is a strong villain: Walken, far from being able to flood Silicon Valley by imploding the San Andreas faultline, looks more like an effete gigolo, just waiting to scratch Roger's eyes out. Grace Jones is badly wasted. The digital countdown to Armageddon trick has been worn smooth with overuse. The operatic sets of yore have shrunk, and something has gone very wrong when the climax belongs to something as serene and harmless as an airship. Even the tottering finale, high up on the Golden Gate Bridge supports, left this vertigo sufferer in a deep state of lacquered composure. Once 007 was licensed to kill; now he not only eats quiche, he cooks it himself. CPea.