The A.V. Club
There’s an unexpected undercurrent of tragedy to the recent James Bond movies, the ones starring narrow-faced, blue-eyed brute Daniel Craig. Looked at one way, and in succession, they’re as bleak as Breaking Bad in their depiction of evaporating humanity: Across the sublime spy games of Casino Royale, the Bourne-biting action of Quantum Of Solace, and the sleekly seductive spectacle of Skyfall, a tortured wrecking ball of British intelligence loses his true love, his mentor, and his ability to feel. Each new movie inches him closer to Ian Fleming’s original conception of the ladykiller with a license to kill—which is to say, further away from the comparably compassionate superspy that Craig embodied in his first outing. The more he resembles the Bond of legend, the further gone he looks.