Shake Us, Stir Us, Mr. Bond

50 years of excitingly detonated hardware and women breathing “Jaaames” in states of postcoital gratitude, thousands of air miles clocked en route to tropical lagoons where villainy lurks among the ravenous barracuda—and where has it gotten Bond? Trafalgar Square, that’s where. There he sits in Skyfall (released Nov. 9), the latest, cleverest, and most psychologically gripping of all the Bond epics—in London’s National Gallery, in a mood of uncharacteristic pensiveness. A geeky tousle-haired 20-something joins him on the bench, and to Bond’s incredulity claims to be the new Q, the master of all those boxes of tricks that have gotten him out of impossibly tight spots over the past 50 years. He hands Bond the usual elegant leather case. But this time it appears, mystifyingly, to be ... merely a leather case. Inside is a gun. And that’s it. “Not exactly Christmas, is it?” the agent says, looking like a small boy who has just been handed a present of socks. “What were you expecting,” asks the baby Q with an expression of condescending pity, “an exploding pen? Sorry, we don’t do that anymore.”