You might remember me from that recurring dream you keep having about gym class. Or maybe my humanitarian work of gently correcting people in com boxes. Or perhaps my ability to consume large quantities of alcohol while driving. In , the world was thrown into chaos. Every year, juvenile misogynists looked forward to the latest installment in the James Bond series. The naked lady credits alone were worth the price of admission. Or as legitimate as Roger Moore could ever get.
The center would not hold. Sorry Lazenby. Like every great story this one starts with protracted litigation. See, back when Ian Fleming was just a guy trying to work out his hatred of women through fiction, he was approached by some chumpy chump named Kevin McClory Chumpikins III interested in making a big screen version of Bond. I think McClory either ran a projector at a theater once, or he gave classes in Catholic screen writing, anyway, the two of them wrote a screenplay called, Thunderball.
It sucked, and the project never went anywhere. So Fleming, being a gentleman, steals the screenplay and turns it into a Bond novel. Savor that one for a bit. You steal Thunderball. This is like wrongfully taking credit for the velvet Elvis. So of course this McClory chump sues when they try to make the Thunderball movie in And he wins. He got a credit on the screenplay, the novel, and the rights to make his own version 10 years after Thunderball gets released.
Think about that. You fight to claim credit for Thunderball. And you win. Oh glorious day. Starting with, Octopussy? Are you effing kidding me?
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See what I mean. Clown makeup. There is some sort of indecipherable plot involving a stolen nuke, a mad Russian general, Faberge eggs, and Louis Jourdan as a villain.
