A 50-year-old film franchise (nay - icon) should be monumentally influential toward the creation and conception of new characters, not the other way around. Robert Ludlum’s novels have only been adapted to three action movies so far. Paired next to Bond’s 22, why is it James who thinks he’s Jason Bourne?

Still, you griping critics, be at ease. Daniel Craig pulls off the grandiose car chases and excessive brawling quite well. The actor makes a stunning new Bond: brutal yet careful, large and muscular, but graceful. And the women are unanimously swooning. Perhaps Craig should stand for a sort of reinvention to keep up with the times. Bond is no longer simply about an attitude.

In “Quantum of Solace,” the man we’ve come to know and love is less of a say-er, as in films past, and much more of a do-er. The ridiculousness of it all, however, does not go unnoticed. How one rogue British Secret Service agent can outrun a caravan of goons firing hundreds of rounds of machine gun fire or take out four of his peers (handcuffed, no less) in a brief elevator ride with a few swift kicks is so conceptually frustrating that it’s comical. Bond, being Bond, walks away from every situation looking particularly debonair, no matter how askew his collar or torn his bloody shirt.
The manner of filming only adds to the viewer’s frustration. Action scenes abound with quick, fleeting cuts that never allow the audience to focus on one thing for more than a second. Poor camera angles are juxtaposed nicely with plenty of computer-generated twists and action-packed noises, but we’re no fools.

There are certain points where you just can’t tell what the hell you’re looking at, and when the dust settles, we’re left wondering how we achieved the resolve we see on the screen. The plot itself is somewhat spotty, and while 2006’s “Casino Royale” is not a pre-requisite, it may benefit you to familiarize yourself with the story. In “Solace,” the ineffable Bond is still rather torn over the betrayal of his ex-plaything, Vesper, but he doesn’t let it slow him down. With the help of his new 20-something gal-pal known only as Camille, he sets his sights on evil entrepreneur Dominic Greene, played wonderfully by French actor Mathieu Amalric, whose motivation is to somehow (surprise, surprise) achieve global domination, starting with Bolivia.

Craig does a fine job doing what Bond has always been known to do. He’s a Brit who drinks like an Irishman (there’s not one scene where an idle Bond isn’t brandishing a glass) and seduces women more easily than ever (throwing lines like: “I can’t find the stationary. Will you help me look?”). This time around, however, we’re forced to reconsider his excessive alcohol consumption and uninhibited sexual activity.

They seem almost less inherent to his character and more like mechanisms used to cope with the death of Vesper, and the prospect of her betrayal. The film’s loose plot centers around Bond’s perceived inability to properly accept it, after all – so much so that M (again faithfully played by Judi Dench) sees fit to have the untamed agent accosted. Our poor, brooding Bond is always so misunderstood, isn’t he?

“Quantum of Solace” opened everywhere Nov. 14. It’s rated PG-13 for gratuitous violence and a modest scene of sensuality.

MATT RYAN
Staff Writer

“I’ll make you a list by the end of the night, man. There are some people you need to check out.” Jon Sands readied himself to share the names of his favorite poets, probably more contemporary than not, probably names most haven’t heard before. And that’s the appeal. His experience in the New York City slam poetry circuit has shown him the best and the worst, and considering his years and years of self-immersion in the world of poetry, I’d be a fool not to take his recommendations.
In his first year of competition Jon Sands captured a slot on the LouderARTS New York City poetry slam team, the youngest person ever to do so; then he was a finalist at the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas. A Cincinnati native, Sands now finds himself touring all over the United States. On Oct. 30, however, his stop was Fairleigh Dickinson University. His performance was sponsored by the department of creative writing, residence life and the dean of students.

The Bottle Hill Room was vacant when he stepped in, bringing with him a friend from the city’s Slam scene, Eboni, to open his act. Sands’ performance was booked to skirt the end of pub night in the Bottle Hill Room in an effort to keep any drinkers behind its doors. This way, they’d finish their last beers as Sands laid into the microphone and decide to stay for the act. Unfortunately, the chairs were empty; not even warm. Nothing looked recently used or occupied, and one could very well have surmised that pub night itself must have fallen flat. It didn’t matter to Sands. People began filing in, rearranging furniture and smiling wide and eagerly in front of the small stage. Intimacy came in the form of a row of student-occupied couches as Eboni began her verse.

Young and initially hesitant, Eboni’s appearance doesn’t fit her experience: a history that made itself evident the minute spoke into the microphone. In fact, she has performed in 16 U.S. cities and internationally in Ghana, West Africa. She was the 2008 NYC-Urbana Grand Slam Champion, and a member of the 2007 Nuyorican Slam Team, where she became a finalist at the National Poetry Slam, and the all-women performance group, Bitten Tongue. Her poems are made alive by her enthusiasm, choosing to turn off the on-stage microphone and project using only her impassioned voice. Eboni captures her audience. If she’s angry, you’re angry. If she’s upset, you might tear up. It’s the sign of a great performer, and by all accounts, her listeners at FDU were left with chills. In only 20 or so minutes, she proceeded to weave a gorgeous blanket of words big enough to wrap everyone inside.

Sands succeeded Eboni with considerable liveliness - literally jumping on stage and spinning around, laughing to himself. “Give it up for yourselves for coming out and supporting live arts,” he said. “You guys could be in your dorm rooms watching the second season of ‘Gossip Girl’ on DVD.” His animation was engaging; his humor relatable. All of that, though, was contrasted by the stark, serious silence that began right before he slammed into verse. Looking down for seconds that felt like minutes before his words, like gunshots in a field, came barreling into our ears. “The broken sky responds,” he began, writing from the perspective of our watchful sky. “I am not just beautiful, I am home. I give you mountain and Manhattan, and I have meant every cloud I’ve ever made.” Its poems like “I Am” and “Being Human Being,” though, that capture the raw emotion Sands wishes to, and too often succeeds in, conveying. The spit was almost palpable from the front row when he shouted, slamming down his hands and shimmying his feet in full-body delivery: “Do not tell me I have not been here. I am ‘been here’. I am New Jersey transit, a fifth of Jim Beam and a raspy paper bag.”

Toward the end of his set he prefaced an admittedly politically-themed poem by announcing his intention to retire it after the election. “And I totally respect your political views, whatever they may be,” he said, following up with some good, old-fashioned American disappointment. “Pride exists buried inside my body. That’s where you find it embedded, because America only means conservative, male, white republican if we leave it or we let it, it’s threaded into our skin, and no leader, or president, or government, or policy has the right to define patriotism for us and take that pride away.” His aforementioned warning was pragmatic, but surveying the faces in the room, it was doubtful anyone had any qualms with Sands’ literary rebellion.

After he wrapped up, Sands returned to a makeshift merchandise table where he was met by a short line of students waiting to buy a book or a CD. He greeted them graciously and encouraged them to find him online so they could exchange a few messages. After all had gone, he exited and talked to Eboni about the train ride home. From his knapsack he pulled out a raspy paper bag and cracked the seal to a fifth of Jim Beam, smiling as if to say, “That one ain’t no joke.”

MATT RYAN
Staff Writer