There’s No Spy Quite Like James Bond

I have spent many happy hours with Shakespeare. I have been moved beyond words by Chekhov. I have marveled at the wit and wisdom of George Bernard Shaw.

But nobody can make me happier than James Bond, agent 007.

So much for Mr. Highbrow Theater Critic Man.

I’m sorry, I can’t help it. James Bond has been the most enduring guilty pleasure of my life, ever since that day in 1963 that my mom said, “Come with me and see this movie. It’s called ‘From Russia With Love.”’

“I don’t want to see any dumb ‘love’ movie,” I said, reflecting my deeply ingrained prejudices as a 10-year-old. “Love is stupid.”

“No, no,” she said. “It’s a spy movie.”

“I don’t know … ” I said, wavering.

“You’ll like it,” she said. “There are helicopters.”

“OK.”

That afternoon, just about the time that Rosa Klebb’s shoes grew metal spikes, I became hooked on James Bond forever.

Which is why, even as a grown man who should know better, I am looking forward with ridiculous anticipation to “Goldeneye,” which comes out on Friday.

I don’t bestow my enthusiasms lightly. I have many well-thought-out reasons for being a James Bond fan:

The opening credits, which invariably feature the silhouette of some woman doing nude jumping-jacks.

Excellent opening scenes of people being electrocuted, falling out of airplanes or driving off cliffs, none of which have anything whatsoever to do with the rest of the movie.

That great guitar theme music, which is even cooler than the “Bonanza” theme.

Memorable title songs by such musical geniuses as Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones, Lulu, Duran Duran and my personal favorite, Nancy Sinatra.

Outstanding villain names, such as Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Oddjob, Mr. Big, Scaramanga, Tee Hee, Hugo Drax and Auric Goldfinger (auric being the Latin root for gold).

Terrific leading lady names, such as Domino, Vesper, Solitaire, May Day, Honey Ryder, Mary Goodnight, Holly Goodhead, Octopussy and Pussy Galore (pussy being the German root for, of course, cat).

Miss Moneypenny, whose loyalty, efficiency and sensible sweaters have always left me deeply, deeply in love.

Exotic locations in Switzerland, Monte Carlo, Jamaica, Hong Kong and other places I’ll never see in my lifetime.

Cool gizmos that explode or inject poison or otherwise kill people, most of which are disguised as tie clips.

Hot cars, especially Aston Martins equipped with the kind of buzz-saw death wheels you can’t get at Les Schwab.

And finally, the most appealing vision ever formulated of the ideal adult male lifestyle: Seducing beautiful women, driving fast cars, killing bad guys with spear guns, drinking martinis, saving the world, getting paid for it.

All right, my critical judgment is blinded when it comes to James Bond, but even I have endured periods of disillusionment.

For instance, there was the unfortunate George Lazenby interlude (“On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” 1969), of which polite people do not speak.

Then there was an extended Roger Moore lull in the ‘70s. However, Moore and Albert Broccoli, the best movie producer ever named after a vegetable, made a strong comeback in the ‘80s with “A View to a Kill” (1985). I even considered the Timothy Dalton era (“The Living Daylights,” 1987) to be somewhat of a new golden age, which shows what a fanatic I must be.

Now, in the space of one autumn, the Seattle Mariners made the playoffs and a new James Bond movie is coming out. What more can a person ask for?

For the return of Sean Connery, for one thing. However, I have high hopes for Pierce Brosnan, who, although no Sean Connery, at least has a decent accent.

But the biggest news of all is that the leading lady has an excellent name. A James Bond leading lady should have a name like Xenia Onatopp.

, DataTimes The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Jim Kershner The Spokesman-Review