These are my credentials

Right, for discussion today class, we'll be looking at a tired bit of 60's kitsch which has been talked about to death. But that's never, ever, stopped me from banging on about anything so Casino Royale it is. I refer of course to the brilliant one with the mighty Niv, not that piece of overblown mobile phone advertising starring Daniel Craig (whose position as possibly the worst British actor of his generation we will hopefully be discussing in the future), although while we're mentioning it now, I would just like to ask the laydeez how on earth can any of you find Spongebob Squarepants attractive:

Even Oldfield in his scants is a more appealing sight. Although obviously that's a bit like saying a rotting cadavar in its scants is a more appealing sight. Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yes, the GOOD Casino Royale. Now, as any fule nose, Casino Royale gets off to a truly cracking start with what may well be the best theme tune ever written for a movie. In fact old Bacharach really pulled out all the stops with the whole soundtrack, giving us the gift of a cross between old school classic songwriting and incidental music for late Benny Hill sketches. And let me tell you, it doesn't get better than that. The film itself has often been derided in the past for being an unholy mess of half-baked ideas, mismatched talents and the disastrous product of a selection of different directors and producers all sticking their oars in. But to those who slag off the Casino, I ask, have you ever watched it? It's BRILLIANT. It's an unholy mess of half-baked ideas, mismatched talents and the disastrous product of a selection of different directors and producers all sticking their oars in - and in the late 1960's what could possibly be better than that? What?? It's as if some stuffed shirt in the film industry had been asked to write down what they would imagine a "trip" on "LSD" might be like. For a start is there a more disconcertingly trippy sight than the Niv in pyjamas and a sort of "night-fez" knocking over giant bekilted Scots with cannonballs while a bevy of classically fantastic looking 60's "chicks" look on? Maybe, but only if you've actually taken psychotropic drugs. Which I know none of you have, gentle readers.

Sellers, Andress and Welles - trois a la banque

The plot, such as it is, naturally has absolutely nothing to do with the novel at all and instead has David Niven, a retired James Bond taking over the position of M and renaming all of the secret service agents "James Bond" to confuse the enemy. Well, never mind whether any enemy is confused, that's the point at which the viewer might as well give up trying to make sense of the movie and just enjoy its finest qualities - namely a seemingly endless succession of images that have "1967" written through them in flourescent indelible marker pen. It's no surprise that the best scenes in the film are those directed by the disparate talents of John Huston (in charge of the "Niv/cannonballs/kilts/cuties" scene referred to above) and the great Joe McGrath (who not only made the Spike Milligan masterpiece The Great MacGonagall which we will look at in the future no doubt, but also the best British "big dog" movie of all time Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World - ah the 1970's) who oversaw the Peter Sellers/Ursula Andress seduction scene which for my money puts any of Sellers' Clouseau falling-about nonsense in the shade.

The cast is absolutely top-hole with a selection of 60's A-listers all obviously equally confused as to what the hell is happening around them but clearly enjoying it nonetheless and Andress looks like she's having the time of her life when she's firing a bagpipes-machine-gun. The obvious exception is Sellers who, angry at not being able to play a straight Bond, walked off mid-filming apparently hacked off with the whole thing (I've never really liked Sellers, I've always had the feeling that people like Lionel Jeffries and Ronald Fraser must have found him to be a joyless creature to work with), but everybody else is going great guns, even Woody Allen who it would be fair to assume would already have been considering this glorious mess to be beneath him (and indeed he has no kind words to say about it at all). Then there's the fabulous Joanna Pettet:

(She signed that for me you know. No she didn't, I just found it off of the computer's "the internet"). And there's the stately George Raft. And there's John Wells, and Richard Wattis, and even Jean-Paul Belmondo. Deborah Kerr, William Holden, Charles Boyer, Jacqueline Bissett, the awesome Alexandra Bastedo (awesome just for being in The Champions alongside William "Arthur Crabtree" Gaunt), Nimmo, Corbett, Cribbins, I mean the list just goes on and on, and that's just for the named characters. Uncredited we have a whole new layer of remarkable names: Angelica Huston, John Le Mesurier, Dave Prowse (oh yes, THE one and only Dave Prowse - check his website by the way, he manages a sort of nu-metal band these days, no shit), and Bob Godfrey (and yes, that's THE Bob Godfrey who, before taking up the pen, did the occasional bit part).

So, there we have it, even if we were to agree that Casino Royale is an indulgent scramble composed of lunatic directing and editing, and even if we agree that to have the whole thing climax with everybody dead following a scene in which the casino is invaded by (i) the US cavalry on horseback, (ii) a troupe of naked dancing girls painted gold, (iii) some seals and (iv) a bloke pushing a machine making bubbles is totally mind-meltingly stupid (and we disagree with both of those things, don't we kids?) one would have to admit that the sheer weight of 1960's talent, style, imagery, psychedelic disinterest in narrative form, post-modern disregard for structure and outright bloody brilliance carries the day.