Queer re-view: Casino Royale

Daniel Craig’s sophisticated first outing as Bond is also the film where he comes out of the ocean wearing small blue trunks and ‘comes out’ in an even more significant way

If this is your first time reading a re-view on LicenceToQueer.com I recommend you read this first.

‘Inspired by Casino Royale’ by Herring & Haggis

"The name’s Bond, Flaming Bond?”

Casino Royale is James Bond’s coming out story. 

Most Bond films fit within the ‘overcoming the monster’ mould: the hero must find the physical and mental strength to overcome a great evil and receive his reward. Slay the dragon, save the princess. But Daniel Craig’s first adventure is structured differently. The ‘great evil’ (Le Chiffre) is killed, fairly unceremoniously, half an hour before the end of the story. And the princess (Vesper) doesn’t just die - she dies by her own hand. For once, Bond’s singledom is depicted within the film itself. In almost every other film, the principal Bond girl is alive when we get to the end credits, even though we know that when James Bond returns he will be doing so alone.

By itself, this subversion of the heteronormative ending wouldn’t be terribly appealing for queer audiences. After all, it’s not as if we’re cheering when Vesper dies. As I argue below, she is a queer hero in her own right. The film itself expects us to feel both crushed over the death of Vesper AND be happy for Bond. These contrary but complementary emotions are heightened for queer audiences because the whole story is structured to get to the point where Bond ‘comes out’ and reveals his true self to the world. If there is any monster to overcome, it is the one inside himself.

A coming out story is merely a ‘coming of age’ story with a queer person at its centre. Sometimes called a ‘Bildungsroman’ when describing literature from the 18th Century onwards, coming-of-age stories are as old as stories themselves and we are constantly drawn to them. The recent obsession with superhero movies are a testament to the appeal of stories in which a character finds the strength to ‘grow’, usually by making an important life decision. How many ‘origin stories’ have we seen in the multiplex in the last couple of decades? Many of these follow the exact same narrative trajectory of Casino Royale and invite queer readings too. Casino Royale has been branded ‘Bond Begins’ but some snarky critics, drawing parallels with Christopher Nolan’s first take on the Batman story. Fittingly, Nolan is a huge Bond fan, so, at the very least, it’s a two way street.

Perhaps because I am queer, I love origin stories more than any other kind of story. They are all, deep down, the same story, the most interesting story of all: ‘Who am I?’ If there’s any question which queer people ask themselves more than non-queer people, it is this one.

Leading up to Casino Royale, introspection had been stealthily sneaking into the Bond series. As far back as 1989’s Licence To Kill, the mission was personal. Ironically, this was a rare occasion on which Bond was without his licence, after being cut loose from MI6. This allowed the filmmakers to present scenes on screen where Bond questions his motivation, although there is still a clearly discernible hesitancy to linger too long on Bond’s self doubt. This is James Bond after all: a man of action. 

Brosnan’s post-Cold War 007 faced many situations which caused him to question - albeit briefly - his place in the world: whether to betray his former double-0 friend or his country; how far he should endanger the life of a previous love - now the wife of an evil media mogul - for the sake of the mission; whether he’s the sort of person who can shoot someone he has feelings for, even though she’s minutes away from blowing up Istanbul in order to monopolise the oil industry. Even in Die Another Day, Bond spends the (most interesting) first act rebuilding himself after spending more than a year being tortured in a North Korean prison. Later in the film, the villains take pains to hold a mirror up to his many character flaws so he can take stock of what he’s really worth. And then a CGI ice wave appears and we forget all about looking inward and look forward to everything exploding.

Casino Royale goes well beyond anything that has come before, devoting almost all of its 144 minutes to providing answers to the question: who is James Bond?

That’s what makes Casino Royale so thrilling - it’s an exploration of identity. 

All of the action mirrors the character. So many of the fights are mano-a-mano encounters between Bond and one other man: the opening ‘two kills’; the African rundown sequence through a building site; the epic Miami International airport pursuit. Even the gruelling stairwell fight involves only two opponents. It’s common in film theory to see fights in action films as ‘sublimations’ of sexual encounters, just like dancing can be used to stand in for sex in musicals and comedies. The Bond series has examples of both. But, even to my queer eyes, there’s nothing exceptionally homoerotic about Casino Royale’s encounters, despite the fact that many of them take place in confined, intimate spaces, including a men’s bathroom (not a first time for Bond, e.g. GoldenEye). The fights are universally bruising and brutal - and distinctly different. Each fight shows Bond learning something new about himself. From the brawl of the pre-credits sequence to the athletic run through Madagascar (in an uncharacteristic floral shirt), the marathon effort across the airport tarmac to the scrap on the stairs. Each fight leaves him bleeding, something we rarely see in a Bond film. It’s almost as if he’s learning where his limits lie, often by trial and error, and, ultimately, what kind of a man he is.

Throughout Casino Royale, Bond wrestles with what it means to be a man. He’s clearly a man of action, a blunt instrument capable of killing anything, but he also needs to learn to be mentally strong, even if that means repressing his emotions. He sums this up himself when he asks M “so you want me to be half monk, half hitman?”. He’s asking her what sort of man she wants him to be, a classic example of what queer and gender theorists call ‘performing masculinity’.

Nothing sums up Bond’s performative - and conflicted masculinity - better than his Martini. Although it packs a punch in alcohol content, it’s a famously fussy, difficult drink to get right, in part because the personal preference of the drinker can make it taste totally different. Vodka, gin or both? If both, in what proportions? Wet (lots of vermouth) or dry (barely any)? Lemon peel or olive garnish? And they’re just the basics. When it comes to shaking or stirring, we all know Bond’s orientation. But shaking a Martini actually makes it more dilute, as the ice chips off and melts into the drink. In his effort to masculinise his Martini he actually makes it less ‘strong’. It’s also clearly not the drink he receives in the film of Casino Royale as the liquid is crystal clear, something you don’t get if you shake a Martini. At the poker table, Bond receives an uncloudy Martini which is a lot prettier on screen. When Bond is at a loose end later in the story he almost bites the bartender’s head off when he’s asked if he wants it shaken on stirred: “Do I look like I give a damn?”  This has the effect of making a break from the past and, according to Daniel Craig, the line was a big reason he signed on to play Bond. The original line in the script actually ended on a f-bomb, something that might have made too strong a break with tradition.

Like trying to mix the perfect Martini, it’s entirely possible to see the whole film as Bond’s attempt to get the perfect balance of stereotypically masculine and feminine traits, a battle many queer people (especially those who are closeted) face every day. Broadly speaking, across the film’s running time he suppresses femininity, then embraces it (sometimes against his will) and then suppresses it, masking over any perceived inadequacies with a well cut three-piece suit (which he wears like armour) and a ridiculously large gun (see below).

Mixing both the masculine and feminine is Craig’s physicality. His gym-bunny body is an understandable cause celebre, occupying the same space (in terms of cinematography and culture) as the traditional Bond girls have done all these years. Rather than Dr. No’s Honey Ryder or Die Another Day’s Jinx Johnson rising from the waves, we have a ‘Bond boy’ showing off his curves. It’s a significant move that doesn’t quite manage to balance out the domineering heterosexual ‘male gaze’ of the preceding 20 films but is at least an acknowledgement that people other than straight men also appreciate something nice to look at. Even more significantly, as non binary Bond expert Meg-John Barker has observed, the showcasing of Craig’s hypermasculine body also “demonstrates that masculinity is as performative as femininity”.

We’re not the only ones looking either. Bond himself is constantly checking himself out in the mirror. When he’s trying on his dinner jacket he narcissistically lingers on his own reflection, pleased with what he sees. He’s fully aware that Vesper is looking on and laughing at him but he doesn’t care in the slightest. As he patches up his wounds following the stairwell fight he takes a large slug of whisky and stares at himself again. But this time he’s examining himself and not liking what he sees, what he’s becoming.

We all feel bad about ourselves from time to time but self-loathing is a well trodden path through many queer people’s stories. Which queer person hasn’t looked at themselves in the mirror and thought themself to be not as good as other people? In our darkest moments, like Bond’s here, many of us have seen monsters, barely even human.

James Bond is on the verge of turning into a monster and he knows it. Following his near death experience at the hands of Le Chiffre, he tells Vesper he’s quitting the Secret Service so he has at least some “soul to salvage”. His journey, or arc, towards this realisation is a fascinating one. In the opening scene he shoots the MI6 traitor Dryden in cold blood. Bond quips straight afterwards, conversing with the man he’s murdered. Ingeniously, the film editor underscores how cruel this is by splicing in a few frames, barely half a second, of a family portrait falling to the ground along with Dryden’s corpse. Dryden, these subliminal frames tell us, had a family. He was ‘normal’. Bond does not have a family, aside from the one he chooses through work: M, Felix Leiter and the rest. But he doesn’t yet have the rest. Moneypenny and Q are still two films away.

Although I would argue (below) that Vesper is a developed character in her own right, more than any Bond girl at least, she represents Bond’s chance of happiness and his personal integrity. She shows even monsters can find love.

In an act of scripting genius, Bond is presented with a horrible dilemma. When he sees Vesper tied up in the middle of the road, he has to decide whether to save the mission or save her (and his integrity as a human bring) and throw it all away: the mission, his own safety and - let’s not forget - his gorgeous Aston Martin, the Aston itself being a synonymous stand-in for Bond himself.

The filmmakers wisely chose not to film the car chase that was scripted. This would have been far less interesting than the scene we get. It’s the dramatic crux of the film.

The Aston Martin swerving out of the way and theatrically barrel-rolling a Guinness World Record-beating number of times, underscores the dramatic weight of this decision. Yes, it’s publicity-friendly spectacle but it’s also consistent with this film’s character development. Action IS character.

The unbroken shot of the Aston Martin’s destruction says: Bond has chosen a life of integrity over one of safety and security. 

How many queer people have had to weigh up one with the other? Making this choice leads to pain and suffering in the short-term. And although Vesper’s suicide is undeniably sad and, for a while at least, life-changing for Bond, he knows he couldn’t have done anything differently. Any choices he made were his own and they were the right ones. He can move on to the next mission with his “soul” intact.

The rage-fuelled 007 of Quantum of Solace shows what all queer people know: coming out is not one a one-off event but a ongoing process. But the end of Casino Royale is positively euphoric, with the full Bond theme swaggering onto the soundtrack for the first time. Previously, we had only heard snippets, as if Bond’s identity has been trying to push its way out of the closet. All the scars and self-doubt have been worth it to get to this point. As he utters the immortal line (“The name’s Bond…”) we know what’s coming. We knew before he did (although we wouldn’t tell him that - it would be rude after all). 

In this carefully choreographed moment, Bond is investing a lot of energy into performing masculinity, but it’s his coming out moment - and we’re living for it.

Friends of 00-Dorothy: Allies

M’s relationship with Craig’s Bond is initially frosty, as it was with Brosnan’s. To be fair, Craig’s Bond does get videoed blowing up an embassy, so she has good reason to be annoyed. But like Brosnan’s M she soon warms to him when she recognises how superbly capable he is, even if his methods involve breaking into her house. Director Martin Campbell describes their relationship as “like a marriage or something” by the end of the film but I see it as very maternal, consistent with other films preceding and following Casino Royale. She could be read as the archetypal mother of a gay man, not happy with all of his ‘life choices’ but fiercely protective of him all the same. When she phones Bond to tell him the man from the treasury is still awaiting the money Dench’s body language shows she knows before Bond does what this will mean: Vesper has betrayed him. She also knows what Bond will have to do. When they next talk, M is the one who tries to help Bond piece together his life, disregarding his resignation for his sake, as well as hers. She knows he needs to channel his grief and rage into one more mission. By the end of Casino Royale, M knows Bond better than anyone: “I knew you were you.” Perhaps even better than himself.

M’s assistant Villiers not only takes us the feminine space usually filled by Miss Moneypenny but also represents the pencil-pushers, a long-standing adversary of Bond’s. 007 has little time for anyone not prepared to go into the field and the film, like Bond, invites us to mock Villiers for his ‘sensitive’ behaviour, including vomiting at the sight of a corpse. This only makes Bond ‘harder’ in the first half of the film. You know what they say though: the harder they come…

Jeffrey Wright makes a fantastic Felix Leiter. Not overtly batting for one side over the other (besides being resolutely on the side of the ‘good guys’), Felix doesn’t identify himself as an professional ally (“brother from Langley”) until Bond has almost lost everything. The two, standing in close proximity to each other and speaking in hushed tones, strike up an immediate rapport. A lot of over-the-shoulder shots convey the idea that he literally has Bond’s back. I am not going to read too much into Leiter telling the barman, after jumping on the back of Bond’s Martini order, to use the same recipe but “keep the fruit”. Some people just prefer their Martinis unadorned. In real life, Wright is a proactive LGBTQ+ ally and has played several queer roles, including in the TV adaptation of Angels In America.

Mathis is the red herring, distracting Bond from the true traitor. Machiavellian in the extreme but ultimately a good guy. He clearly has an eye for the ladies but expresses his desire respectfully. Even more so in Quantum of Solace than here, he is the latest in a long line of older male figures Bond relies on to complete his mission.

Shady Characters: Villains

MI6 traitor (and Bond’s second confirmed kill) Dryden looks and sounds like someone straight out of a Graham Greene or John Le Carre novel, both of who wrote their fair share of queer characters. He tries to buy himself some time by telling Bond “If M was so sure I was bent she would have sent a double-0” treating us to a very old-fashioned slang term for a gay man (although used in a different sense here).

Dimitrios loses both his car and his wife to Bond at the poker table. He seems more cut up by the loss of the Aston Martin DB5 than his spouse, although who could blame him really? [If my husband is reading this, I’m only joking darling]

Le Chiffre is ‘other’ in several ways: as if it wasn’t enough that he has a facial scar, he bleeds blood AND he’s asthmatic, he’s also got a penchant for sadism that rivals Bond’s own. He might be queer too.

Although he has a gorgeous girlfriend, Valenka, she seems to be some he’s content to be seen with. A ‘beard’ in other words, someone he keeps on his payroll to deflect accusations that he might be more interested in men. He barely looks up when she walks through his yacht in her bathing outfit and doesn’t react when a disgruntled client moves to machete her arm off right in front of him.

But it’s the much pored-over torture scene that “throws up all sorts of possibilities”, in the words of director Martin Campbell. “There’s a sense that Le Chiffre is getting his rocks off.” This is something of an understatement, with many critics recognising it as more or less sexualised, although it does depend on which version of the film you’re watching. The first version released in the UK had a slightly edited version of the scene. Some of the differences were minimal, such as substituted and shortened shots and sound effects being toned down to reduce the ‘thwack’ noise as the rope makes contact with Bond’s (offscreen, to the relief of all) genitals. However, there was also a shot removed of Le Chiffre draping the end of the rope, almost tenderly, over Bond’s shoulder and whispering into his ear, ‘What a waste”. The line was cut because it made it, according to the British Board of Film Classification, far too explicit that Le Chiffre was deriving sexual pleasure from torturing Bond. You can get away with pretty much anything in films nowadays, but the BBFC is particularly sensitive (with good reason) to sexual violence. In whichever version you watch, it’s pretty clear that Le Chiffre is enjoying himself. But as producer Michael G. Wilson points out, he’s “like a sadomasochist trying to excuse himself”, especially in the first half of the scene which is, ostensibly at least, an attempt to extract information from 007. He’s clearly conflicted over his attraction to Bond, not least because he’s the man who has foiled his plan to win back his lost millions.

Le Chiffre is a pretty despicable, irredeemable character and it’s with a sense of ‘good riddance’ that Mr White puts a bullet in his head just in time, saving Bond from losing that which ‘identifies him as a man’.

Interestingly, for all the thematic concern with masculinity in Casino Royale, it is this symbolic (fortunately for Bond, not literal) castration which finally breaks down Bond’s armour and allows Vesper fully into his life, recuperating with her in the idyllic surroundings of Lake Como, Italy. Bond has to be unmanned before he can become the man we all know and love.

You go gurls!

Fittingly for the ‘first’ Bond adventure, we have a very archetypal incarnation of the ‘villain’s girlfriend who turns helper/disposable pleasure/sacrificial victim’ character. Caterina Munro’s charming Solange first appears on a beach riding a horse very quickly, for obvious reasons (both of them). It’s a sublimely camp moment that leads into Craig’s emergence from the sea. One could argue the scene offers objectification for everyone, the camera lingering on Bond to provide the equal and opposite reaction to Solange’s action.

Bond wastes little time pumping Solange for information, Craig doing a superb job of keeping Bond’s mind on the mission, even as she heads below his waistband. He leaves her (unknowingly to her fate), with Champagne and caviar “for one”, a cold-hearted punchline to a scene which makes it clear that Bond will always put Queen and country before his libido. To his credit, Bond does appear to be genuinely, if only briefly, affected when he sees poor Solange mangled and tangled up in the hammock outside his beach villa. As soon as M appears though, he turns dispassionate. Solange is forgotten. Small change in the grand scheme of things.

In contrast, Vesper is the money.  And for my money, she is by far the most believable romance in Bond’s history - with a woman at least. True, there isn’t much competition, with Tracy in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service in second place and the rushed, forced courtship of Madeleine Swann in Spectre being a distant third. I hope this will be more satisfyingly developed in No Time To Die. 

From a canonical point of view, Bond has no history in Casino Royale. The producers hit the reset switch. Some might argue this makes it easier to buy into the idea that Bond is capable of genuine love - he’s not fully formed yet. But just because something is canon doesn’t stop everyone bringing along their Bond cultural baggage. Everyone knows: Bond has No Time To Fall In Love. And it’s to the credit of everyone concerned, particularly actress Eva Green, that it’s not just Bond who falls for her but us too - hook, link and sinker. Perhaps this is a vaguely facetious metaphor considering Vesper’s ultimate fate, drowning herself by literally locking herself out of Bond’s future. There’s nothing facetious about the sequence. It’s far more impactful than the overdose Vesper takes in the novel.

Why does Vesper’s death hit us, and Bond, so hard? Perhaps it’s because she is so unconventional. There’s definitely something attractively queer about her. You could argue it’s because she’s living with a secret, something that will undoubtedly have repercussions when it comes out. But so do many characters in the Bond series, and the spy genre in general. With Vesper, her queerness does goes much deeper - and right to the heart of the queer appeal of James Bond.

Their first meeting on the train is unforgettably Hitchcockian as well as entirely improbable (why wouldn’t they fly to Montenegro?). But it allows Bond and Vesper to have a proper conversation and to take each other’s measure. It’s Bond who highlights her “slightly masculine clothing” and finds common ground in their shared childhood trauma. It’s Vesper who sees beneath Bond’s tough exterior, leaving him feeling “skewered”. Bond is beaten, leaving us with the impression that she could be in the tradition of the ice queens - Pussy Galore, Tiffany Case, Holly Goodhead, etc - who put up a good fight but succumb to Bond’s charms eventually (losing their agency in the process). But unlike the ice queens, we take an unequivocal liking to her. She lays her cards on the table right from the get-go, or at least appears to. She describes his watch as “gorgeous” and imagines another of his assets to be “perfectly formed”. Unlike Vesper, who has only seen Bond from a sitting position, the audience has seen Daniel Craig on the move for nearly an hour by this point and we can indeed confirm that her imagination is correct. She’s immediately attracted to him and tells him so, but also tells him in no uncertain terms that they won’t be sharing a sleeping berth. She’s a professional, like him, but unlike Bond, she doesn’t mix business and pleasure. Craig’s performance at the end of the train conversation makes it clear that Bond would like nothing more than mix pleasure with business. In the car to the hotel he doth protest too much, trying to save face by telling Vesper “you’re not my type” because she’s single and therefore complicated. That is, there is a very real possibility of falling in love with her and making a commitment. But, as we can clearly surmise from Craig’s performance - through the window of the car Bond sullenly pretends to take in the scenery, like a scolded child - it’s already too late. He’s in love for the first time. And possibly the last.

Producer Michael G. Wilson has noted that the intention was to show Vesper shaping how Bond feels about all women from this point onwards: because he distrusts them they are only fit to be disposable pleasures.

Vesper’s first appearance in the film actually comes in the opening title sequence. Very briefly, her face cameos as the Queen of Hearts as a set of crosshairs floats across the top of that playing card. She towers over a diminutive Bond, a neat bit of foreshadowing of her femme fatale role, although according to the filmmakers, test audiences (excepting those who had read the Fleming novel) had no idea she would turn out to be harbouring a deadly secret, at least until Bond seals her fate by telling her he loves her. At this point, it’s so ingrained in the fabric of Bond that he cannot be in a long-term relationship that we know something must go terribly, terribly wrong.

How are we supposed to take her death? As a tragedy that could have turned out differently? As an inevitably necessary self-sacrifice? As justice being served?

For me, the most heart-wrenching part of the finale is Bond’s riposte to the cycloptic Gettler, who is holding Vesper at gunpoint, and threatening that he will kill her. “Me first,” he says from behind a pillar, quietly enough that Gettler - and Vesper - cannot hear. It’s as if Bond is telling himself what he should do. He’s returning to his robotic killing machine programming but, because of Vesper, he can’t quite bring himself to lose his humanity completely. The action sequence that follows shows Bond with his armour back on. He appears invincible, unstoppable, operating on adrenaline as he efficiently dispatches every henchman, even wrenching a deeply embedded nail from his own shoulder. In a stunning moment of catharsis, he turns the nail gun on Gettler and nails him through his one blackened lens.

But he’s undone by what happens next. In a brilliantly conceived sequence that somehow does not feel contrived, Vesper takes her own life with Bond, the other side of a locked door, powerless to stop her. She is the only Bond girl to retain her agency right until her final seconds on screen. This is what secures Vesper Lynd in our affections, and it’s what haunts Bond from this point onwards.

The novel of Casino Royale famously ends with the line “The bitch is dead.” as if it were a full stop. In the film, it’s more of a comma, a pause which makes it clear that this isn’t over: “The job’s done, the bitch is dead.” It’s less malicious than it is full of self-recrimination. Bond says it as if he’s trying it on for size. But it doesn’t fit. M certainly isn’t buying the hard man act, explaining why Vesper betrayed him and helping Bond realise the truth: “She must have known she was going to her death”.

Until alarmingly recently, the majority of queer characters in film died before the end credits rolled. This trope of queer stories have not just one, but two names: Bury Your Gays and Dead Lesbian Syndrome. It was widely believed that, if the fictional queers were allowed to live, the whole of society would be threatened. It might even ‘promote’ homosexuality. More pragmatically than that, believability in the story would be at stake. Who would ever believe that queer people could ever, in real-life maintain a stable, loving relationship?

I believe Vesper, and by extension, Bond, fall into this space. Who would believe a Bond film where he drives off into the sunset in his Aston Martin with the girl in the passenger seat? Tellingly, this scene does occur in Spectre - and it is not believable. Interestingly, it occurs not at sunset but shortly after sunrise, perhaps to introduce an ominous note: this is not happily ever after.

It’s tempting to imagine a different ending to Casino Royale where Vesper does get to live. She does get into the Aston Martin with Bond. I’m pretty sure though that she would be the one doing the driving.

Camp (as Dr Christmas Jones)

The stunning opening titles by Daniel Kleinmann are an interesting oddity - there are no women (besides the quick Vesper cameo). No dancing girls at all. Instead, we are asked to focused our attention on Bond himself. Director Martin Campbell has said he regrets deliberately leaving the women out. But even if I wasn’t a gay man I would argue it’s entirely appropriate for a film which is Bond’s origin story. Right at the end, Daniel Craig moves into focus, the blue eyes breaking the fourth wall. “You know who I am,” his body language says. “Yes Mr Bond,” we may answer, “but how well do you know yourself?” 

Musically, the song (which is one of my favourites, sung by queer ally Chris Cornell) may appear to be on the ‘masc’ side of the Bond spectrum but the lyrics of You Know My Name are, another pleasing oddity. Unusually, they are from Bond’s point of view. Usually, people talk about him or to him. The shift to the first person prepares us for a film which is interested in the interior of Bond.

In the Bahamas, Bond orders a Mount Gay and soda, a rum distilled in the Caribbean since 1703, long before ‘gay’ took on its queer overtones.

Some of the costumes around the poker table are stunning. I’m seriously considering buying a kaftan for the next time I host a poker party.

What’s going on with the Swiss banker, Herr Mendel? To use a phrase I heard a few times from my own grandma: “he certainly is a character!”

I have very personal queer associations with Venice: it was the first place outside the UK I visited with my husband (five years before we were married). And it’s not called the ‘City of Lovers’ without reason. You could say it’s too on-the-nose to end the film there but Bond has been there twice before (albeit not in this continuity) so maybe he has the same associations I do. Incidentally, Venice has been used a by-word for sexual freedom since at least Shakespeare’s time and wealthy gay exiles flocked there in the 18th and 19th Centuries.

The final shot of the film goes out of its way to show Bond ‘fully formed’, although we know, if we’ve been watching carefully, that Bond is as plagued with self-doubt as the rest of us. Bond’s only putting on a performance. It’s a dramatic entrance that is pushed into the realm of camp because of 007’s absurdly large gun. Does its size (lengthened further with a silencer, which he clearly doesn’t use) support the idea that Bond has taken steps towards becoming self-actualised? Has the Bond we know arrived? But he famously uses a small handgun, so is something else going on? Perhaps, if our proclivities run to applying psycho-analytical terms, it could be ‘compensation for an inferiority complex’ like Scaramanga in the novel of The Man With The Golden Gun? The name of the gun doesn’t help matters: it’s a Heckler & Koch UMP-9, with curved magazine and side-folded buttstock.

Let’s just leave it there.

Queer verdict: 005 (out of a possible 007)

Casino Royale eschews the sequins and glitter of many earlier entries in lieu of a demure but well-tailored dinner jacket and is no less queer for it. So many films are touted as being ‘realistic and gritty’ when really they’re just superficially ‘dark’ with underlit cinematography and a lack of jokes. Casino Royale has stunning, moody cinematography and tonnes of genuinely witty jokes. Above all though, it’s a Bond film that is as interested in character as it is blowing things up. Vesper and Le Chiffre both draw our queer interest but it’s 007’s exploration of his own identity which the film places front and centre and really draws queer viewers in.

What do you think? How queer is Casino Royale? Leave your comments below.