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Meanwhile the henchmen sent to murder him keep giving him the information he needs to continue his “investigation,” because they keep not murdering him. On the upside, they introduce 007 to his next sexual conquest, so there’s that. It’s a cat and mouse game of incompetence that serves Mr. Bond’s libido, and little else. Everything Bond does undercover gives himself away, and everything the villain does to KEEP him away draws him closer.

It was cute the first few times, and maybe it even felt a little innovative the first few times. In Dr. No, for instance, the villain’s reasons for taking Bond into his confidence feel at least moderately plausible. And I’m not trying to say that writing with templates is necessarily a bad thing (it’s part of the reason every episode of Rick and Morty is a masterpiece). But when combined with lazy writing and story construction, it’ll bring down your movie every time.

All of this nonsense is a series of contrivances meant to capitalize on the “Blaxploitation” craze of the era (remember I said this story starts out in Harlem?). They later serve to drive the story into the heart of the Louisiana bayou, and a series of Southern-fried action set-pieces where 007 walks on alligators and flips a speedboat. Admittedly, Moore performs with uncommon panache. But it’s all in in pursuit of a villain better suited to Burt Reynolds and less to Her Majesty’s Finest.

That’s not to say that Yaphet Kotto doesn’t acquit himself well as said villain. He’s a fine actor. It’s just that his character, “Dr. Kananga,” doesn’t quite deserve to be in the same conversation with “Dr. No.” And once Kananga’s plans are revealed, you find yourself pitying the criminal mastermind who lowers himself to such machinations. Much of his pointless dirty work could be farmed out to his seemingly infinite supply of henchmen, as a Bond villain should. Instead Kananga is the subject of a rather silly plot twist that makes him feel more sad than fearsome.

The primary Bond Girl in this installment is Solitaire, a fortune telling gypsy girl played by Jane Seymour. This character is also boilerplate, in ways that are actually pretty dark. But Seymour imbues enough grace into her for you to actually root for her. She’s no Honey Rider or Pussy Galore, and I’m not saying she should replace Susan B. Anthony on our currency. But she does get a less embarrassing name, along with not quite enough credit for being a bright spot in an otherwise disappointing film.

Probably because when you’re standing in a dumpster fire, it makes you hard to see.

The remainder of the supporting cast fare less well, being almost entirely grab-bag of racial, sexual or regional stereotypes. I can’t realistically blame the filmmakers for doing what they felt would make them money at the time, because it’s still what filmmakers do today. I can dismiss it as a casualty of time, and be thankful it exists - to remind us of what we really don’t want to see going forward. While Live and Let Die does include one of the most entertaining speedboat chases ever put to film, it also contains enough casual racism to jumpstart a white supremacist YouTube channel. It’s an unfortunate chapter in the franchise, and a story unworthy of Bond.

And it’s inhabited by a lead who fills the role admirably, but never quite looks entirely comfortable holding a gun. Connery’s Bond was a seasoned killer. Lazenby beat up or murdered nearly every other male character in sight.

Moore’s Bond has a trust fund vibe about him, always vaguely aware that he’s the star of the show. He played it that way on purpose and while I enjoyed it as a child, and I do still enjoy him in the role, it doesn’t work for me quite the way it used to. Maybe it’s because the effete sense of entitlement Moore brought to the character inadvertently made him the creepiest of all the Bonds, once he became too old to play the role. Watching a 50-year-old man’s feeble attempts to date rape a girl half his age because he can’t find a guy who lives on an island shaped like a skull?

No. Just...no.

That’s really ironic, because Moore himself was probably the sweetest man who ever lived, and I do genuinely enjoy some of his work.

But Live and Let Die is not on the list.

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