I had the chance to read for the role of Moneypenny in the World is Not Enough. I turned it down because do you remember any of the actresses that have played Moneypenny? No, you do not.
In the Living Daylights James Bond fights a dude in a cargo plane with the back flap thing open for drama. When I saw that I remember wondering why a cargo plane would have propellors. When I get on a flight to Saint Louis there’s no propellers on that plane. I associate propellers with tiny death planes like the one that got JFK Jr. Or the one that Martialla almost killed us all in. But in the movies when you see a giant cargo plane it’s always got propellers. It makes no sense. I wonder if I care enough to remember to ask Martialla.
This plane had propellers, so I knew it was a cargo plane right off the bat. It was kicking up so much dust that I thought it must be dragging a cable or something behind it on the ground at first but I guess that’s just how physics works. Seemed like it was too high up to be throwing that much ash around on the ground but all the better for us I suppose.
One of the easiest things people who like to criticize writing (usually cringing doglike and yapping while they do it) can zero in on is dues ex machina – everything just suddenly working out for our heroes for no reason. I bet the guy who first did that thought he was pretty clever and now look at him. A whipping boy for every pretentious movie snob around.
I will admit that it’s not a very satisfying turn of events, but when it happens in real life who are you going to complain to? God? That would be a funny premise for a film, a guy goes through all these trials and tribulations and travels the world and fights bad guys to find Jacob’s Ladder and when he ascended to Heaven and meets God instead of asking about the nature of evil or why good things happen to bad people he gives God some notes on how to punch up the Bible.
I bring it up because when the plane came in, not only did it stir up a massive cloud of ash for us to cover our advance the people in the guard towers ducked down and covered their eyes as well. Like God was clearing the way for us to make our move. It was one of those better lucky than good moments that happens in life from time to time.
I don’t know how anyone else operates but when I have to run through a killzone my instinct is to dash as fast as my long shapely legs will carry me. I had the feeling that as soon as I broke cover the ash cloud would dissipate and I would be out in the open stuck between the moon and New York City and I would be shot down. Turns out that running in a blinding sandstorm (of ash not sand) is not the best idea. After the second time I went flying and knocked the wind out of myself I adjusted to approaching in a thigh-crushing quick walk crouch. I don’t know why I was hunched over like that, either they could see me or they couldn’t, but I wasn’t able to force myself to straighten up.
We made for the probable machine shop for no other reason that we didn’t know what any of the other buildings might be. Martialla was right, it was a machine shop. It looked enough like a mechanic bay from the old world that it was alike a nostalgia punch to the butthole. I complain a lot about things I miss from the real world but honestly most of the time I’m too tired and scared and hungry and thirsty and in searing pain to pine much for the comforts of the early two thousands. But seeing just a wall of tools and some benches and “normal” things, that got to me for half a second.
I was brought back to reality by the sight of Throat-Punch grabbing the guy in there sitting on a stool humming happily to himself and tinkering with something and covering his mouth while Slurk (the other guard) and Cerna (the other Jesus Lady) stabbed him fifty to a million times. Once stooly was bleeding from a hundred holes in the torso Throat -Punch threw the guy down like it was worldwide wrestling. He’s already dead man, lighten up.
Before we could even take stock and come up with some kind of plan (why didn’t we already have a plan?) a shirtless guy in some kind of crinkly pants came waltzing in holding a big boxy radio or something.
“Habba? Habba shlumba ara . . . what are you doing?”
The first part of what he was saying was future gibberish that I couldn’t understand but the second part I understood just fine.
“This” I said and shot him in the face.
That’s when all hell broke loose! That’s a little joke there. Like deus ex machine using the term all hell broke loose is considered super hacky writing.
Rocket Cat 