Thanksgiving indeed! It looks like Hostess Twinkies will be saved after all. The trouble with Hostess Twinkies is that they are way more fun to think about eating than they are to actually eat.
I had a similar experience with the new Bond movie, "Skyfall." I enjoyed the movie a lot more walking into the theater than after things got dark and Daniel Craig turned into an insensitive thug.
OK, granted, he was up against evil incarnate and he only has a couple of hours to save the whole British Secret Service. The hateful psycho-killer in the movie is played by a hideously styled and badly colored wig, sitting squarely atop Javier Bardem's head. You thought his haircut was bad in "No Country for Old Men?" Hair stylists should picket this film.
Comparisons with Sean Connery, blessed be his name, are inevitable. But even tied upside down in a dungeon, Connery exuded fancy French words like panache and savoir-faire. While Craig looks every bit as good as Connery in a tux, the likeness stops there and the difference stands out like Mister Ed next to Secretariat.
Let me give you an example. There is this totally gratuitous scene where Thug Bond is in the courtyard of the boorish villain's palatial home. There is the obligatory glamorous beauty tied to a nearby post. CraigBond has earlier "known" her in the cinematic sense, yet he stands by and does nothing while the Bad Wig shoots her. Then they casually go about their conversation.
ConneryBond would not have let her get shot. And if he did, he would have somehow brought her back to life while setting the timer to 007 seconds on the tiny nuclear device he'd secretly slipped into Bad Wig's suppository.
Oh, sure, Bad Wig gets it in the end, but even then CraigBond stabs him in the back unable to finish the job face-to-face like a RealBond would've.
But, in a stylistic effort to turn this turkey into a full-length feature film, the director has spliced in snippets of every car chase you've ever seen, a rooftop motorcycle chase that Evil Knievel would have declined, and worst of all, you're forced to suffer through the agony of every apricot vendor that's ever been mowed down by an insensitive thug in a speeding car.
After battering the living sheet metal out of the Bentley, he wanted something less conspicuous. So he stops at a secret garage and grabs his old Ford Focus - no wait; he jumps in his Aston Martin DB5 with the machine-gun fog lights that's been patiently waiting in storage for the last five decades. It's a desperate ploy to remind you of the roots of this half-century old franchise.
Judging from the box office take, I'm the only one in America that thought the story was lame and the brawn outweighed the brain. I feel like the husband in the old joke. He's on his way to the store when his wife calls, "Be careful, the radio says there's a car going the wrong way on the freeway."
"Uh-uh," he replies, "I'm on the freeway and there's hundreds of them!"
To Daniel Craig, I just have this to say, "Daniel, I knew James Bond. James Bond was a friend of mine. Daniel, you're no Sean Connery."