Last night, I took my two sons and my 87-year-old retired-CIA-agent friend Ken to see the latest James Bond flick. It’s our routine: I take Ken to see all the spy films, and then he tells me what they got wrong.

Of the recent remake of “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy,” which was well-reviewed but with warnings that it was “slow,” Ken said, “Too much action.” Too much to be realistic, in other words.

He very much liked “Bridge of Spies” — as did I! — except for the part when a CIA agent pulls out ID to show to Tom Hanks’ character. “We didn’t have that,” Ken said. Of course — because then they would have been identifiable.

Re “Spectre,” Ken found the death count unrealistic. “The first thing they told us,” Ken said, when he was initiated into the CIA in the 1950s, “was don’t kill anybody.” I pointed out that James Bond has a literal license to kill, but Ken was unmoved. He did like the special effects, though.

Not having a great expertise in the actuality of spycraft, I’m free to enjoy these films completely. I am, however, well-versed in the realities of being a certain age. I could not buy that Daniel Craig, who at this point is only slightly younger than Ken, could jump 30 feet from the parapet of an Italian villa then run to his car, get in and drive. I have no doubt he could make that jump — and die. Or crush his spine. Or lie collapsed in a heap on the cement below, his ankles and legs broken. But jumping and running in his perfect designer suit and his dress shoes? No. Craig and I are similar ages and build and lately I find that I’m surprisingly careful walking down my two front steps.

Even more than that, I don’t buy the fashion. In fact, I can’t buy the fashion, and neither could James Bond. Either a British civil servant makes far more than I would expect — and why hasn’t their conservative government put a lid on that? — or his wardrobe is pure fantasy. Mind you, I was enamored with every bit of everything he wore throughout the movie. I liked the chukka boots, I loved the khaki biker jacket from Matchless, and I admired every one of the suits (from Tom Ford, a designer so extraordinary that, according to his website, he lives in three cities — quite a feat, heretofore accomplishable only by either Doctor Manhattan or Doctor Who). I wanted all of it. Even the sunglasses, and I don’t wear sunglasses. I raced home to jump online and see what it all was, where it could be had, and how many Swiss bank accounts I’d have to raid. Happily, GQ of course did an entire spread on 007’s wardrobe. Well, the sunglasses alone are $405. Granted, that’s to cover both eyes, but still. The jacket is $1325 (when converted from British pounds), so perhaps I’ll keep a lookout for it at Nordstrom Rack.

Or, I could buy knockoffs.

Just now I found this knockoff site, which claims, “This brown James Bond Suit is a reproduced version that is inspired from the Hollywood Movie ‘Spectre’. Daniel Craig wore this Brown Suit in Spectre as James Bond.” But, see, here’s the thing. I don’t know if they got the stitching right, but I do know they didn’t get the wording right. Not only did he not wear this suit, saying it’s “brown” shows that you don’t understand at all. True designers would call it “dun” or “ecru” or “saddle.” Not BROWN, for God’s sake. When the entire point is CLASS — unattainable class, in the historically formidable and oppressive British manner, a manner that says we have THIS and you have NOUGHT, using the word BROWN signifies that you have NOUGHT, and your knockoffs are no doubt NOUGHT. (See how I’ve used “nought” rather than “naught”? That’s because I’m using a British term — i.e., I’m working within the subtleties of language, as one could do with fashion knockoffs. If one were better at it.)

On the drive home, Ken regaled us with tales of actual spying, including one where he and his colleagues sat in a stadium in Austria where they knew the KGB would be. They went there expressly to watch from afar with binoculars and to write down who was there. This is not the sort of thing I’ve seen James Bond do in any of his dozen-plus films, but granted, he’s MI6, not CIA. As they scanned the crowd and found their opposing number, detailing each face, Ken and his cohorts came onto the last one — and that one was holding binoculars, scanning Ken and his group, while someone next to him jotted down names. That’s the sort of irony that would make for a good spy film from the Coen Brothers, but not for a Bond film. Moreover, I got the impression that everyone involved was just wearing whatever they were wearing, and that everyone could afford it.

This entry was posted on Monday, December 14th, 2015 at 11:22 pm and is filed under On reading, Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.