Critics reviews

Is this the ‘best Bond ever', as excitable pundits have claimed? The question is meaningless, because times change; you might as well ask if the 2010s are ‘better' than the 1960s. But it's certainly the best-looking Bond ever, ace cinematographer Roger Deakins conjuring some beautiful visuals. A fight in silhouette against the backdrop of a giant blue-neon jellyfish is a scrumptious image, and even the final act – which is the weakest – is worth it for some breathtaking views of misty Scotland.

The delight of Sam Mendes's movie (what an odd way to begin a sentence!) is its indulgence in a kind of shameless showmanship that's quite distinct from the all-out sensory assault practiced by so many contemporary action movies: it saves its money shots for when they're actually going to be worth something.

Why is James disposing of women like cigarette ash again? When he fell in love with Vesper and had some balls (however much punishment they took) in Casino Royale, he brought female audiences back to the franchise. Now, his apparent concern for a young lady from the Macau sex trade neither prevents him from jumping her in the shower nor extends to his lifting a finger to save her? Even in the bad old days, he was better than that.

One would hope that, the extended warm-up completed, Bond v.6.0 would finally get down to the business of simply being Bond. And yet here is Skyfall, replete with portentous themes of death, resurrection and rebirth, remaking once more a revamped hero who, after a promising start, has yet to properly find his feet.

This Bond installment is weighty with calculation: it feels like a ploy of demographically targeted marketing, with the personal drama attached to the espionage, the highly specific motives grafted to the thriller plot, looking like a studio decision to attract women viewers rather than like a mapping of any person's imagination.

Mr. Mendes, a British film and theater director whose dubious screen achievements include embalming the American dream in "Revolutionary Road," gets Bond just right in a story that first turns on a domestic threat and then on a personal one. Mr. Mendes grasps the spy's existential center, as typified by the ritualistic mano a mano grappling that almost every action movie now deploys to signal that, when push comes to punch, the hero can still kill with his bare hands.

Skyfall pays lip service to embracing 007's unique tradition while actively attempting to reposition Bond as a kind of cousin to caped crusaders: another loner, orphaned man-child who kills the few to protect the many, all because he misses his mommy.

Nearly every Bond film coasts on franchise goodwill while delivering mediocre delights. Skyfall is the unreconstructed ideal, mixing preposterousness and expert stuntwork in perfect proportion.

In London, James pursues his target through rush-hour foot traffic in the tube. While arguably in poor taste after 2005's Underground bombings, it's easily the most gripping set piece Mendes has ever devised. If we must bring Bond into the real world, that one chase should serve as a model.

Much has Bond seen and known in [his 60 years of existence], "cities of men and manners, climates, councils, governments", but almost none of his previous screen adventures have taken place in his native land. In Sam Mendes's first Bond movie, dazzlingly photographed by Roger Deakins, the sequences shot in wintry London and Scotland stand out.

It does more than merely satisfy. Bond's latest is a remarkable high watermark for the series: at once solemn and deeply funny, sexy and sad, self-conscious without all the rib-bruising elbowing.