My friend had his tuft of black locks pulled and bobbed in the back. I thought his hairdo made him resemble Steven Seagal, and as he sought the bartender's attention, I nudged him and told him so. He grinned and took no offense and that was the intent. In no time he got me to agree that the Seagal-look was at least better than having a receding hairline. We took a minute out of our night to discuss Seagal-classics like Undersiege and Marked for Death. That alloted minute extended when we couldn't recall the name of the action flick in which Seagal dies within the first twenty minutes. We remembered that it took place on an airplane that had been hijacked by terrorists, and while an American special forces unit covertly boards the plane to rescue the passengers, some sort of a mechanical mishap spells death for Seagal's character. From the thin air of the stratosphere, he plunges to the ground. We're left to imagine the gruesome impact of his body going splat and then the movie—whatever it's called—goes on without him.
The next morning, when I logged on to the Internet to get the answer, three things occurred to me. 1.) The movie is Executive Decision. 2.) Although this film was received fairly well by audiences and critics, it Marked for Death the clout of Seagal as a lead-actor in action flicks. The year after ED hit theaters, 1997, saw the release of Fire Down Below, and by then, it became pretty clear that Seagal had devolved into a farce. In the following decade, most of his action flicks were shipped straight to rental racks. Then Seagal decided he was tired of pretending and wanted to kick some ass for real. Decades after he graduated from police academy, Seagal became a Reserve Deputy Chief in Louisiana. As of late 2008, a camera crew has followed him around on the job because it would be wasteful for Seagal to tackle and shackle a meth-cook without broadcasting his heroics. 3.) I can think of one actor who can't at all relate to Seagal's plight; his career was never marred by an ignoble death on-screen. His premier roles signify more about survival and death than any other actor. His name is Sean Connery.
As the original James Bond, Connery set the mold for action heroes who defy death against all odds in a flurry of punches, bullets, explosions, and charisma. Most of the actors who followed in Connery as Bond's wake emphasized the first three parts of the action-movie equation in order to compensate for their lack of charisma. Connery as Bond didn't have that problem. Arnold outlasted the Predator because he was the strongest one in his squad. Neo killed dozens of digital-henchmen because he had an unlimited supply of guns and ammo. John McLean prevailed in Die Hard 2 because in the end he (cleverly) blew up the bad guys' plane. James Bond is different. Punches, bullets, and explosions are constant in Bond flicks, but somehow they are marginalized. It's more engaging to time how long it takes Bond to bed his next vixen and then guess which sexual innuendo he'll quip afterward. Bond employs fisticuffs, guns, and gadgets to survive, but the primary reason why he seems so impossible to kill is because he's such a ruthless charmer.
In Casino Royale, Ian Fleming's first novel in the Bond series, the author describes 007 as the spy nods off for the night on a hotel bed.
“...With the warmth and humour of his eyes extinguished, his features relapsed into a taciturn mask, ironical, brutal, and cold.”
Fleming hints that—beneath a veneer of good manners and chivalry—chilled irony is one of Bond's core, unconscious traits. Bond is wont to express the opposite of what he means in his actions and speech. That is why, in Goldfinger, for instance, he seems smooth rather than silly while he swims toward the shore of the harbor of a bad-guy stronghold with a fake-duck helmet strapped to his head. It's a farcical trick that is more befitting of Inspector Clouseau, and yet Bond lends the impression of a shrewd expert because of his capacity for irony. Later on, in the calamitous wake of the detonation of the bomb that he plants to combat evil forces, Connery as Bond gallivants into the dressing room of the belly-dancer in a nearby tavern. They smooch, of course, but when she objects to the presence of a pistol carried in his shoulder-strap, Bond mock-apologetically says, “I have a slight inferiority complex.” (Even though he clearly doesn't.) Obligingly, he sets the holstered gun aside to allow further kissing. Facing the bathtub that his latest lust-interest emerged from, Bond has his back turned to an advancing henchman armed with a club. A trusting and romantic lover would likely keep his eyes shut during this stage of foreplay; Bond, however, opens his lids to gaze warily into the eyes of the belly-dancer. He detects the ghostly glimmer of the advancing henchmen in her deceitful peepers, and whirls her around so that the club crashes down on the back of her skull. Following a prolonged tussle, Bond launches his attacker into the filled bathtub. He then swipes a plugged-in fan into the porcelain pond and electrocutes the man. As the treacherous woman rubs her swollen head, Bond readies his escape, but not before he quips, “Shocking. Positively shocking.”
Only, he wasn't really shocked by the belly-dancer's treachery. Casino Royale is rare in that Bond doesn't kill a soul nor bed a woman until his tale of genesis is almost finished. More surprising still, he tells his main squeeze--a fellow spy with stunning curves and dark secrets—that he intends to marry her. The woman, named Vesper Lind, panics, balks, makes love to him, and begs to study his face intently before he retires to his own quarters. He finds her dead the next morning, having overdosed on sleeping pills. Her suicide note reads...
“...This is the last moment that your love will last...I am a double agent for the Russians.”
Vesper was blackmailed into deceit by SMERSH, a cutthroat counter-intelligence group founded by Stalin, but nevertheless, the gash in Bond's heart has never mended. “He saw her now only as a spy,” Fleming writes. When Bond phones London to inform his bureau he tartly reports: “(Vesper) was a double, working for Redland...Yes, dammit, I said was. The bitch is dead now.”
Although Casino Royale wasn't adapted into a film until long after Connery's tenure as Bond had run its course, the novel must have been vital to Connery's understanding of 007. Accordingly, his brisk and bold seduction of Goldfinger's gorgeous accomplice Jill gets her killed and coated from bare head-to-toe in gold paint, but Bond never sheds a tear. Later in the film, Oddjob slays Jill's vengeful twin sister with a long-distance toss of his deadly bowler hat, but Bond doesn't waste a minute of screen-time mourning. After that, a rollicking match of Judo-foreplay in a barn begets a roll in the hay with Pussy Galore—another lackey of Goldfinger's whom Bond bangs in spite of (or because of) her cold and brutal disposition. Much of You Only Live Twice takes place in Japan. In addition to confirming another skill of survival, Bond's Christlike power of resurrection, the hero charms and seduces a Japanese ally named Aki. While the two slumber in bed one night, a ninja-assassin poisons and kills her. Again, Bond hardly mourns; the next day, he graduates from ninja academy and—rather than attend Aki's funeral—he weds a different Japanese stunner, Kissy, in a mock-ceremony to (somehow...the plot gets a bit silly) increase his inconspicuous cover and further his mission to thwart the evil Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Aki's murder barely causes a murmur in the plot-line. Upon completion of his mission, just give Bond an exotic siren to ravish on a life-raft or underneath a parachute (Aki, Kissy, Pussy, the busty blond from Dr. No—who cares?) and he's a happy Double-O agent...a happy Double-O agent with a boner.
Bond's aversion to long-term relationships explains why his constant flirting with Miss Moneypenny has never led to intercourse. To Bond, the problem with Moneypenny—secretary to M, his superior—is that she would make the perfect wife. He trusts and admires her. The two believe in and fight for the same global causes. Her wit is a worthy match for his own and she is much smarter than the typical bimbos in Bond's Rolodex. Unfortunately, Bond will have to wait until his retirement to propose to Moneypenny. In the following passage, Fleming explains his protagonist's feelings on love and luck.
“One day, and he accepted the fact, he would be brought to his knees by love or by luck. When that happened he knew that he too would be branded with...the acceptance of fallibility.”
The Bond/ Moneypenny union would equate to 007's surrender to death—and he won't risk that as long as vermin like Dr. No and Goldfinger infect the planet. In the Bond films he starred in, Connery doesn't survive because of love; he survives because he transcends a reliance on love that is far too human and fragile.
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Connery's survival in The Hunt for Red October is simpler to assess. As Captain Marko Ramius, a Lithuanian-born refugee to Russia, Connery plots to exploit his command of the Soviets' prized, top-secret submarine for his own benefit. The Red October's stealth is unmatched. The vessel can't be detected by sonar and it is stocked with nuclear missiles. The captain's intent, however, is not to incinerate Manhattan and incite a toxic heat-wave on the Cold War-front. Instead, he plans to surrender the sub to the U.S., as a gift to declare his defection.
Before the completion of this traitorous deal, the bare hands of Connery as Ramius snuff the life out of a political officer (and loyal Soviet) on the cusp of foiling his scheme. He dupes his own soldiers as well as the entire naval fleet of “Redland.” Later on, a rogue sailor who averted American capture ambushes and shoots his devious captain. Ramius survives the wound, though. He advises agent Jack Ryan to be careful what he shoots at and then relies on the American to retire the assassin for his act of vengeful patriotism. Ryan succeeds, of course, but shortly afterward, the Red October is targeted by a Russian sub. No matter. As he tends with grit to the bothersome bullet-hole in his side, the captain advices his newfound allies of the bold steering techniques required to evade the torpedo-fire of the Konovalov. Another success! The underwater jukes and swoops work so thoroughly that the Russian sub haplessly falls prey to its own torpedo.
While skillfully constructed and engaging, certain aspects of The Hunt for Red October make it seem as though it was adapted to film by the scriptwriting team of Hulk Hogan and the ghost of senator Joe McCarthy. At times, the movie disgraces Russians almost as badly as Birth of a Nation defames African-Americans, but that only serves to emphasize another facet of Connery's survival skills. In Red October, he endures because he chooses to be an American. Connery showcases that such an unnatural patriot of Planet Apple Pie must muster the courage to draw scourges of TRAITOR in order to honor our causes of freedom, capitalism, jingoistic bluster, and granting casinos to those whose ancestors we butchered. He is not a patriot in the truest sense; rather, he is better than a true patriot. In addition to love, Connery transcends loyalty to survive.
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I never got around to watching much of Highlander, but from what I gather, Sean Connery plays the part of a warrior known as an “Immortal” who is destined to slay others of his own ilk—by decapitation, the only way to truly snuff out those pesky Immortals—until Immortaltown is whittled down to a population of one more than zero. The victor of this fantastical and nerd-approved Super Bowl of eternal warriors is granted omnipotent power over mankind.
At some point, something called “The Quickening” factors into the plot and dialog. The Quickening is a telekinetic state of mental acuity that is even sadder to mention when conversing with women than references of Yoda's Force or Peter Parker's Spider Sense.
But never mind that. In the interest of conciseness, I just want you to know that Sean Connery once played the part of a mythically gifted warrior who never let a sword-plunge through his heart ruin his day.
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In the third installment of the Indiana Jones trilogy (never you mind the fourth of the bunch), Connery plays the title character's father, Dr. Henry Jones. He instilled in his iconic son a passion for archeology. Father and son differ in ass-kicking prowess; Sr. slyly squirts ink into a Nazi henchman's eyes to gain the upper hand, whereas his son favors a deadly mastery of whips, firearms, fisticuffs, and flag-pole jousting on a motorcycle. (And it's telling that a bewildered Jones Sr. is seated in the side-car throughout the thrilling motorcycle chase.) In a role that is antithetical to the brutal efficiency of Bond, Connery showcases his range (and vulnerability) in The Last Crusade.
We relearn that Sean Connery is vulnerable to gun shots to the stomach. The film's climax takes place in the Canyon of the Crescent Moon,* where a hidden temple was long ago carved into the steep walls of rock. Inside this temple, the Joneses and their two noble pals encounter Nazi scum. Both parties seek the preferred cup of Jesus Christ: the Holy Grail.
Owing to enduring tales of its miraculous healing power, the Holy Grail is kind of a big deal. Of the rival groups questing for the Grail, one believes it belongs in a museum, while the other craves an eternity of tyranny run amok—and it should come as no surprise that the group of Nazis champions the latter cause.
The leader of this evil troop is a man named Donovan. After every one of the lackeys he commands one-by-one to retrieve the Grail is beheaded on the first of three challenges—level 1= The Breath of God, which only the penitent man will pass—Donovan coaxes the fit and resourceful Indy into the cobwebbed and booby-trapped tunnel. He does so by busting a cap in Sr.'s gut. Indy is then forced to risk death for the Grail in order to save his dad.
If you guessed that Indiana Jones succeeded in returning the Holy Grail to his gravely wounded father, you are correct. But before that happens, he kneels (as a sign of penitence) at the right moment to dodge the ambush of a blade sprung at throat-level, then nearly plunges to his death when he forgets that Jehovah begins with an “I” in Latin. Indy recovers and scolds himself, conjures enough faith to walk across thin air, and watches on as that Nazi rube Donovan chugs from a poorly chosen cup and falls victim to a supernaturally heinous fatality that must have inspired the creators Mortal Kombat.
Enfeebled, bloodied, and lying supine, Connery as Jones Sr. sips from the Christ-astic cup offered by his son. Sacred water is poured on his gunshot wound. He grimaces as the lump of newly healed flesh flattens like a bulbous hill leveled out by the compassionate tears of God Almighty. Jones Sr. stands to his feet and buttons his shirt, awestruck and revived.
Even when Connery teeters on the cusp of death, one should never brainstorm phrases for his obituary until a year or so after his burial. He can survive by means of divine miracles, too, because God can't bare to see him die, either.
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It would be inaccurate to claim that Sean Connery never dies in movies. Aside from the film I'm about to discuss, he dies in at least one of his lesser works, too. That doesn't defy my intent, though, because I have no illusions that the man is immortal in a genuine sense; nobody is. The Grim Reaper is undefeated--and when he notches his win over me, I want the scene to replicate in as many ways as possible Connery's death scene in The Untouchables.
To clarify: I don't want to bid an orgasmic farewell to this life in the throes of bedroom passion. I'm not so naïve to forget that it takes two, you know, and a double-homicide love-making session hardly seems romantic. And if my girlfriend or wife's pulse outlasted me in bed, I'd hate to instill in her a lifetime of recurring nightmares. No self-respecting 80-year-old man would inflict that sort of ghastly drama on his 22-year old girlfriend.
(No death during sex fantasy for me. Sex is supposed to be about the opposite of death.)
I don't want the screen to go black and read “Game Over” while playing the video games I like so damn much, either, nor keel over once the final guitar note from “Yellow Ledbetter” trails past the horizon and slowly vanishes at the conclusion of a Pearl Jam encore. Sure, those are also fairly ideal scenarios in which to parish, but they're tame and gutless compared to the demise of James Malone, the wizened and feisty patrolman turned treasury officer in The Untouchables.
The Prohibition era, which lasted from 1920 until 1933, made criminals of beer and booze drinkers, but because most people didn't mind bending a law that rebukes freedom of choice in the name of absurd puritanism, the masses drank nonetheless--albeit illegally. A moral dilemma arose, however, once it became evident that murderous bootleggers helped to facilitate the availability of liquor—especially in major cities like Chicago, where Al Capone reigned as a criminal tycoon.
In The Untouchables, Kevin Costner as Eliot Ness is chosen by the Treasury Department to exact justice on Robert DeNiro as Al Capone for corrupting the moral fiber and police department of Chicago. The hero's efforts are embarrassing and fruitless until--in a chance encounter--he meets Sean Connery as James Malone.
At first, Malone declines Ness' recruitment efforts, but he regains his dormant gumption when he remembers that “The Lord hates a coward.” In no time, he takes Ness to church and preaches a pithy endorsement of “The Chicago Way”—a method of crime-fighting that entails pulling a gun when enemies pull a knife and sending the bad guys to the morgue after they send a good guy to the hospital.
Two others join the ranks of the Untouchables—a bespectacled accountant who is shockingly deadly with a shotgun and a cool Italian-American marksman—and the quartet successfully raids numerous dealings of Capone-controlled liquor. In response to this pesky yet strengthening thorn in his criminal underbelly, Capone orders hits on the Untouchables. The Rick Moranis-lookalike is the first victim, but never mind that, for minutes later, Sean Connery performs perhaps the most gripping and bad-ass death scene in the history of cinema.
As he awaits a return-call from Ness, Malone strolls tensely around his apartment. He is eager to inform his boss of a helpful tidbit he gained by pummeling an elderly cop: the identity of Capone's bookkeeper—the man who keeps track of the gangster's shady dealings. With his attention seemingly focused on winding a phonograph, Malone has his back turned when a knife-wielding assassin creeps into his place and sneaks up on him with a malicious grin.
Malone is merely playing possum. Before the goon can strike, Malone whirls around and unleashes on his rude intruder a short-barreled shotgun; he insults the homeland of the “dago bastard,” reprises an adage of “The Chicago Way,” and chases him out the back door.
Henchmen seldom carry out solo-missions, though, and so once Malone steps outside, another villain--one hiding in the alleyway—pierces dozens of holes through his torso with an onslaught of Tommy-gun fire that blares and devastates for about ten seconds.
And yes, Sean Connery does eventually meet his cinematic demise, but prior to that, he crawls the distance of an astoundingly long hallway back to the telephone beside his phonograph. He coughs wretchedly and bleeds helplessly, and when a distraught Ness at last arrives, Connery's character does not seek religious rites or a kind farewell from a friend. Instead, he hisses a raspy revelation--the name of Capone's bookkeeper. With his final surge of willpower, as a crimson geyser oozes from his mouth, Connery jolts upward from his soon-to-be chalk-outline and asks Ness the following...
“Now! What are you prepared to do?”
He fights and suffers so that his last words can serve as a fiery pep-talk to good men willing to challenge their nefarious counterparts. He is outraged by his fate, yet resigned to it. Life will, after all, go on without you or me or Sean Connery. We are but replaceable characters in an ongoing saga.
Yet every character has a part in the story we were born into but destined never to see completed. Connery's greatest roles testify that we should fight the acceptance of mortality with all the tactics available in our survival handbook until the time comes to concede that no character means more than the cause he fought for.
Here endeth the lesson.
* Note to self: Conduct a search for the Holy Grail. Begin by locating the Canyon of the Crescent Moon on Google Earth.
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