The Craig era’s extraordinary ambivalence to the James Bond character manifests itself in the way that it routinely denies Bond the clear victories that his predecessors often enjoyed. The Craig era predominantly offers narratives of loss and failure (indeed, the image of Bond cradling a dying acquaintance, while a witness watches, becomes a dominant visual motif in these films). Consider rusty Craig’s Bond does not earn the the traditional “Bond and his girl” finale until he quits the secret service at the end of Spectre. His only true victory is to escape himself.
In this section of Casino Royale, Bond meets with his first unqualified failure and responds with suicidal petulance. Bond’s underlying pathology is such that failure is unbearable; it shatters his constructed self and forces him to confront the void within. We’ll see similar kinds of death-wish responses in Quantum of Solace, wherein Bond’s loss of Vesper sends Bond careering out of control, as well as Skyfall, where a failed mission sends Bond on a bad bender.
Bond masks his profound psychological instability with calm reserve and impeccable attire, and the morning after his confrontation with Obanno, Bond seems to be his typically collected self as he and Mathis converse on the hotel balcony. Mathis impishly prods Bond about Vesper. Bond gives no quarter.
Giancarlo Giannini again proves that he’s one of the film’s most welcome presences. Here, Giannini’s Mathis once again proves to be a keen improviser. He’s used the bodies Bond hid in the stairwell to strip away some of Le Chiffre’s resources by framing one of Le Chiffre’s henchmen.
It’s a shame that this essential intelligence is nowhere in evidence when Mathis is reduced to a spectator during the card game, dumbly narrating the beats of the game for the audience. Bond’s loss at Le Chiffre’s hands would be so much better if it wasn’t accompanied by heavy signposting about Le Chiffre’s “tell.”
Now, we don’t know this yet, but it’s clear by the end that Vesper set Bond up for failure, enabling Le Chiffre to provoke Bond into an overconfident maneuver that strips him of all of his assets. This lends her confrontation with Bond her an interesting level of dramatic complexity upon a rewatch. It’s a strong scene for Green. It’s a weaker scene for Craig, in part because the “bloody idiot” line feels much too scripted for its own good and Craig is forced to stumble over it.
He’s much better in the moment that follows, where Bond snaps “Do I look like I give a damn?” to a bartender who asks him whether he wants his martini shaken or stirred. It’s a gag about Bond history, but also a significant character statement. Previous Bonds were defined by their unwavering sense of taste, but Craig’s Bond wears all the accoutrements of luxury as an adopted persona that he quickly discards when caught in the grip of an identity crisis (see also his extended bender at the beginning of Skyfall). When this Bond is humiliated and confused, he just wants to get trashed.
Blinded by rage, Bond grabs a steak knife off of a table and rushes to kill Le Chiffre. If he can’t win the poker game, he’ll assuage his ego through defeating Le Chiffre with brute force, even if it costs him his life.
The irresistibly cool CIA agent Felix Leiter stops Bond and offers him a less dangerous road to victory. Jeffrey Wright’s Leiter gets such a promising introduction in Casino Royale, an ally whose cooler head balances out Bond’s hotter temperament. Alas, that potential is never quite fulfilled in these movies, but Wright still makes the most of his material.
Bond returns to the game with renewed confidence, much to Vesper’s surprise and Le Chiffre’s dismay. In a last-ditch move to dispatch Bond, Valenka poisons Bond’s martini, forcing Bond to stumble out of the game.
This sequence serves as a loose analogue to an elegantly suspenseful section of Fleming’s novel involving a gun disguised as a cane. It’s one of the more ridiculous stretches of the movie, even if some grace notes (like Bond inducing vomiting by swallowing a lot of salt) are clever.
Bond has a convenient medical pack in his car, including a self-defibrillator, and establishes a link to MI6’s medical team. M and the MI6 crew watch on via computer monitors as Bond hovers near death, issuing instructions to Bond about how to prevent death. Bond is ultimately saved via Vesper ex machina; he falls unconscious before he can activate the defibrillator, only for Vesper to stumble upon him and (improbably) know exactly what to do to save his life.
It’s a beat clearly meant to balance the Bond/Vesper relationship, but as a result of the sequence’s awkwardness, it doesn’t quite connect on a dramatic level. Bond’s unflabbable resolve to return for the game is good for a chuckle, though, as is Vesper’s flabbergasted response.
Bond’s return to the game gives us a classic Bond one-liner: “that last hand nearly killed me.” It’s a Connery-style line that Craig delivers with Dalton-style intensity. Craig’s Bond so often seems distinct from the previous Bonds, but in this moment he really does seem to exist on a continuum with his predecessors.
As soon as the line has been delivered, Bond’s victory in the card game is assured. For anyone who knows poker, the final hand seems absurdly overdramatized and I would prefer a less outrageously grandiose win for Bond. That said, the climactic poker hand allegedly replicates an actual poker hand that occurred while the film’s creative team was playing poker to learn the rules, so perhaps my complaint is baseless.
Having won the day, Bond’s first thought is of a celebratory dinner. “You were almost dead an hour ago,” Vesper reminds him. Bond doesn’t acknowledge her remark. Bond’s enduring appeal as a fantasy figure lies in his flippant attitude toward death. Even here, where Bond’s bravado is so directly rooted in a kind of madness, it’s impossible to deny its allure.