‘Diamonds are Forever’ or — Rats, Robots, Roses and Rectums?
Of all the complaints levelled at ‘Diamonds are Forever’ (1971), and there are so many complaints you could level at this stupid movie, one of the biggest is that it squandered what should have been a tough tale of avenging Tracy’s death for a camp frolic in Las Vegas involving Moon buggies and slot machine-playing elephants. Hang on! Didn’t we just leave 007 devastated, heart-broken and weeping? So what’s he now doing mischievously sticking a load of jewellery up someone’s bum hole?
Other issues range from insipid action, flat direction (this is Guy Hamilton after all), anaemic editing (the absence of Peter Hunt’s energy is almost catastrophic) and a score that initially leans into the sleazy more than the exciting producing a film as flabby as Bond’s middle-aged spread. Surely there must be some good news?! Fortunately there is because re-watching it last night I was shocked at how much fun I had with the ridiculous thing.
The biggest revelation was how I didn’t give a damn about it wiping the events of ‘OHMSS’ (1969) away almost entirely as although we miss out on that gritty vengeance plot we also avoid getting bogged down in continuity, and continuity is something that can severely hobble the Bond franchise when applied (they attempted it in the Craig era and the consequence was Bond dragging Vesper’s corpse around for four bloody movies). The liberating benefit of not doing so is what the Bond films thrive on best and that’s contrasting variation: a serious adventure followed by a silly escapade. This is Bond’s vital metaphysical balance where for every Red Grant we need a Shady Tree, so if you can embrace your inner Blofeld-in-drag there’s some camp fun to be extracted here.
And what says “camp fun” more than Mr. Kidd and Mr. Wint? Are they camp stereotypes? Sure, but it’s also an example of just how camp ‘Diamonds are Forever’ really is when its two gay characters are the least camp thing about it, and by an extraordinarily long way. And they’re just so enjoyable to watch together, whether it’s their catty comments, Bruce Glover’s insanely over the top performance or (and this is my favourite moment of theirs) when they both self-satisfyingly giggle to themselves in unison as they drive off into the night after stuffing Bond into a pipe.
Not only that but their sub-plot with Bond is more engaging and better set-up and paid-off than the main one concerning Blofeld, something perfectly illustrated by the film’s finest sequence — the journey of the rose. It goes like this…
Bond climbs up the outside of The Whyte House (by far the film’s best scene), discovers Willard Whyte is actually Blofeld only to then be rendered unconscious, driven out to the desert and left to die. Yet notice how his sense of smell is highlighted from the beginning with Bond putting a red rose in his buttonhole and sniffing it before casually climbing out the window, so when Bond finally identities Mr. Wint’s aftershave at the very end we’ve already been slyly informed of Bond’s olfactory acuity.
And what a journey this rose goes on! It starts off at a dizzying height over a glittering Las Vegas then finds itself in a toilet before witnessing a flying cat and someone shot in the head in one of Ken Adam’s best designed sets after which it’s gassed in an elevator before ending up deep underground (the exact opposite of where it began) where it’s confronted by a bemused rat and a robot with sparks shooting out of it. It’s a damn sight more exciting than the tedious car chase, that’s for sure. And Barry’s score is tremendous!
After that the film pretty much falls apart with the climactic scene on the oilrig feeling utterly underwhelming as well as the crime of seeing the wonderful Tiffany Case (Jill St. John) reduced to a total idiot along with Bond shoving a cassette tape down her bikini bottom (what is it with Bond and anuses in this one?!).
‘Diamonds are Forever’ is a film that’s as easy to love as it is difficult, if not downright impossible, to defend. It’s sluggish, frequently incomprehensible, tacky, blasé and gaudy… very much like a naked, middle-aged Sean Connery in a Las Vegas hotel room. But he still looks pretty good and let’s face it — you still would, wouldn’t you?
