Redeemed.

I saw this last night. I thought the whole thing was brilliant, the way they gave Bond a background without actually giving him one and they cut the whole cast down to ribbons and then fleshed it back out so it actually matched the books beautifully. I liked how abrupt the film was. It's one of the first ones where I felt like James was actually James like James in the books. Hard. Just like he should be, a hard man.

I came home and read "The Man With the Golden Gun" under my sheets till I fell asleep. He had just crossed paths with Scaramanga when my eyelids got too heavy.

I have read too many good books and seen an abundant number of brilliant films, and I'm still thrilled and enthralled every time I pick up a Bond novel or very literally sit on the edge of my seat in a movie theater to watch him always win. I've asked myself why many times. I mean, honestly? "Little Women" is in my top ten, so why Bond too? Why do I go back for more deaths and shootings and awful scenes in which the Bond girl has to die? Why read about the cold-hearted spy who makes love but never falls in love and spends all of his life doing something I'm not so sure he even believes is right but really can't walk away?
Why?
That's the question in my head every time I walk into the theater or hide in my bed with the slim paperbacks.

I don't even think it has an answer. And I don't even care.

Best part:

Bond: Everyone needs a hobby.
Silva: So what's yours?
Bond: Resurrection.

Maybe that's why I love it all so much. Without trying to be, every James Bond story is a redemption story.