After a steady succession of films in the Bond franchise released every two years, the much darker and much more violent (until Casino Royale, that is) License to Kill marked the beginning of a six-year hiatus in the Bond franchise before we were privy to the Brosnan generation. It also marked the final film for actor Robert Brown (M), director John Glen, who had directed the previous five Bond films and both of Dalton’s, and long-time producer Albert Broccoli.
In a way, the tone of License to Kill suggests that the producers were aware of the legal wrangling that would take place over the ownership of the series. While I enjoyed Dalton’s final turn as Bond, the content is more akin to the violent-eighties movies like Commando, Predator, or Red Dawn. The shark that gnaws at Felix Leiter’s leg is more reminiscent of the blood baths drawn in Jaws 3 and 4.
Most interestingly, the often tolerant, soft side of Mi6 is non-existent. When Bond is confronted for going rogue in search of drug czar Franz Sanchez, M is not understanding. Rather, he strips Bond of his license, his sidearm, and seems to have no problem with the assassination attempt, ordering them off only to prevent civilians from witnessing the murder.
In other films – You only Live Twice, et al. – Bond goes rogue, gets suspended for two weeks, or abruptly quits. License to Kill illustrates the straw the broke the camel’s back, as if M is officially tired of dealing with Bond’s diva antics. James can no longer toss around his importance and ego has benefits to the cause. Mi6 has outgrown him.
And while a mend in the rift is alluded to in the end, the carnage leading up to this rift portends that no relationships will be the same. In part, I wonder if this film – the first not to be named after a Fleming novel – isn’t a nod to the growing animosity between production companies.
Of course, this is pure conjecture, and I might be looking for more meaning in this film than others because Dalton was a breath of fresh air. Throughout this retrospective, I’ve noticed that Connery and Moore weigh on the audience. For every hit, they had a miss, and once their novelty wore off, I was hardly interested in anything beyond knowing who sang the title track. Admittedly, the Moore franchise got a momentary boost at the end in Octopussy and by Walken’s turn in A View to a Kill, but they hardly obviate the silliness of a film like Moonraker.
With Dalton, there was more mystery. He just looked more disturbed. In truth, he was the first Bond to really make me feel for the loss of his wife, Teresa – a moment that is most often forgotten because it took place in On her Majesty’s Secret Service. The Connery and Moore Bonds seem less than moved by their forced separations. Dalton – whether it be the darkness of his features or his acting ability – just comes across as troubled, which is why License to Kill works so well. When he goes rogue, there’s genuine hatred seething from him. And, for the first time since The Spy who Loved Me, Bond seems like a real person much more than he seems like a cartoon.
