Goupil, Born c. 1973; Marseilles, France. 5'11, 82 kg.
Following is pieced together from worldwide intelligence and police reports and subject's diary.
At 17, subject killed his girlfriend in a heated argument. From this incident he was unable to recover.
Tied to a guilt that hounded him until death, he judged himself a killer, a fate from which he believed could not rise above.
Attaching himself to criminal elements on the French docks, the subject made his first for-hire kill at 19.
His reputation grew over time as that of a "reliable man". Connections were made overseas making him an international commodity of the highest order.
Subject kept to himself with an extremely low profile. This was fueled by the fact he did not trust himself with another personal relationship.
His career both peaked and crashed in Russia on an assignment originating from Senator [CLASSIFIED], after which the subject himself became the target as a possible loose end.
He self-documented his time on the run, psychologically breaking down as his self-myths shattered, leaving him in a hazed state of confusion.
Searching for lost redemption and grasping for impossible hope, he strayed into religion, online political forums, and self-exposure in a fast food drive-through.
Still, through this time he was able to remain connected to the reality of his legal situation and was able to evade pursuit though much of it was due to his unexpected life choices throwing off law enforcement.
With the walls closing in on him over time, realizing escape meant merely treading water with no resolution in sight, subject ended his wasted life.
A full accounting of the subject's activities is still ongoing by French authorities, hoping to solve past assassinations on French soil. All references to Senator [CLASSIFIED] were scrubbed beforehand.
It's been a good 25 years since I walked into Premiere Video, Dallas's legendary movie rental store, and saw this snarling face of Klaus Kinski. I had a standing rule never to rent a film based on its cover alone. In this case I (thankfully) violated it.
From the initial haunting scene descending from the mists of the mountainside into the depths of the Amazon jungle, we're taken on an odyssey of insanity. Watching the film, one senses the terror of being trapped in a whirlpool, hoping against hope for a way out. It never comes.
Kinski is the perfect vehicle for this madness, a single-minded agent of destruction whose purity in thought lies in its absolute devotion to power. His way must rule! Only when it's too late does anyone stand up to his beloved delusions.
I had a chance to view it on the big screen at the famed Texas Theater last week. And, boy, did it blow my socks off. Not just its enlarged presence on the big screen, but as a commentary on the suicide of our time. I can't tell you how many moments I wanted to scream out loud, "This is us!"
Even the first time watching this I said to myself, "What the fuck are they doing dragging that stuff through a jungle?" The "civilized people" taking vestiges of civilization wherever they went in some sort of fantastical delusion, reality be damned. The environment must adopt to them.
"This is us!"
The more dire the situation the more they cling to vain illusions of a future: passing laws, nominating a king, instituting a social structure. In stubbornly adhering to these rituals signifying nothing, the more they seal their fate while floating down a river into oblivion; running out of food, driven onward possessed by a false sense of entitlement. This is us.
Our pretense is everywhere, ceaselessly propagating our madness can continue forever. We're all supposed to be in on the joke, congratulating ourselves on our cleverness of lying and "getting away" with it. But just like the grotesquely doomed party of Aguirre, we only become more pathetic, more ridiculous, and more farcical by the day - until nothing is left.
I had my doubts while watching this on where exactly it was going with the story. Turns out my fears were mislaid by a rewarding ending. The film is an outstanding commentary on how peoples' lives look from the outside as compared to the inside. Or, at least, that was the intent. It does succeed in many ways but they failed to fully flesh out the story. The wife keeps saying there was more to their marriage than just the negative aspects that came to light. Fair enough. SHOW IT. Show us what brought you two together and the flower of love once nurtured. That would have been a home run instead of a triple.
What a mess this film was. For some reason it was set in 1970 but the dialogue is very 2023. That's just the beginning of the contrivances for characters that have no real grounding and a story with no underlying truth. This was written wholly with the audience in mind as to what will get the most applause from moment to moment. These people simply had nothing to say regardless of how badly the film wanted to believe it has something to say.
Another Ridley Scott spectacle film. This will thrill the mouth-breathers who will be taken in by the huge battle scenes and allegedly kinky bedroom dialogue. Good for them! But while Scott is many things, he never has been and never will be a storyteller. I'm a huge Blade Runner fan and his broken narrative style worked perfectly for that film but only in an outlier case like that does it excel. The director is also highly defensive about his utter lack of historical accuracy and as a Napoleon fan I can tell you I don't know who that character is up on the screen, but it's definitely NOT Napoleon (or even a hint of Josephine).
Instead, the names were used as outlines to be filled in whole cloth from whatever commercial fantasies the filmmaker dreamed up. Scott's offensive response to those who criticized this approach was to say, "Get a life!" I suggest he should take his own advice to prevent any further waste of time and energy (his and ours).
some earth girl told me "no one is trash, we are all valuable"
i asked her if i could my rub my hard dick on her nice soft leg
then she said i was trash
i have that kind of power
i saw some fancy blonde chick in a giant ass white suv stop at the intersection
i wanted to rush up to her and say "mmmmm! you smell good!"
then she'd scream, go home, wail about how "something must be done about all these smelly homeless people!"
i have that kind of power
i could woo her with lines like "i used to shit inside too"
then she'd do her utmost to vote me out of existence
i belong to the army of the fallen
every day our numbers grow stronger
the number of yet to fall grows weaker
guess how that will turn out!
we have that kind of power
blondie stands barefoot on her marble floor demanding the world can be no other way
don't worry blondie, i got a spare trash bag for ya
By virtue of his 00 designation, Bond has a license to kill. It is not, however, a license to live.
*****
Oh, no. No way. This will never happen.
The minute Q branch brought out the device for him (were they smiling?), Bond's instinctive rejection was resolute and final. The scuba gear was for deep sea ice water with a special air tank designed for its user to be shot from a cannon with an ersatz umbilical cord deep into the sea where the user would have minutes to spare before death by compression.
"It's fully vetted, sir," claimed the technician, reading Bond's face.
Bond snorted with a wry smile and walked away.
It had always been a fine line he walked between being useful and being used. The difference, of course, being life and death. While Bond would never say he has no appetite for danger - bordering on a need - he kept it in balance with his survival instincts. It's the other fellow's job to die. Thus, when called before M for an explanation, Bond refused.
"So you'll not give me a reason then?" mused the wrinkled face of the ex-admiral.
Bond had never tested the old man like this before. He was about to see a side he'd never seen.
Bond shrugged. In observing the time it took M to form a response, 007 saw the respect the man had for his instincts and the futility of arguing with them.
"You understand this is not my decision. I have to revoke your 00 designation. In consideration of your considerable contribution in the past you may continue your time in the service in an administrative capacity, if that suits you."
The idea of that revolted him as much as the scuba contraption. "No, sir, it does not."
"Then let me leave you with this thought: Once you go out that door, there's no coming back."
M's final card played, Bond laid his gun on the desk and walked out. He, too, had no choice.
*****
The myriad of thoughts racing through Bond's mind while sipping whiskey alone in his flat were beyond his consciousness to record; a near death experience flashing before him.
He remembered The Promise, when he first entered the service, his rationale for taking orders in the first place: "If they ever cross the line, I'm quitting. No ifs, ands, or buts. I'm out, end of story."
As the days passed his peace with leaving had only grown stronger. No, he had not been rash or hasty. He did not overreact. For the first time in his life, time was on his side. It dawned on him that the day the service would cross the line was inevitable. He'd simply been pushing it out of his mind.
For whatever reason, Bond had always been drawn to Battersea Park. He'd sit on a bench overlooking the Thames and dream of 18th century naval ships, when Britain came to rule the seas. But sitting here now he felt something different. He noticed the soft sun, the glistening greenery, the mysticism of the shire.
Good God, how they'd laugh back at the office if they knew the thoughts in my head!
M was right about one thing, though: there's no going back.
*****
Though Bond no longer haunted the "good old boy" bars of his past, preferring rather a local pub that granted him a more lively view of the world, he knew contact was imminent.
The psychology of the man the service picked was obvious: send a younger version of himself. And as he approached Bond in his booth, the man certainly had all the boxes checked - except one. Bond was his own man while his opponent clearly was not.
The sent man was all grins and charm as he put out his hand. "Why, if it isn't 00 coward!"
The comment was loud, intended to be overheard, to rattle Bond.
Bond stood as the man arrived, gripped his outstretched hand and sheepishly replied, "You win! I can never hope to match your repartee."
The man had been prepared for anything but surrender. Truth was, Bond was incensed that such a juvenile comment was meant to fluster him. But it was the fake Bond who was now flustered.
"Sorry about that. Was a stupid thing to say. It's just that's there's a general consensus you skipped out when the going got rough. If there is a bomb embedded in the ocean floor it has got to be defused. I don't have to tell you what's at stake."
"Oh, bloody hell, you're right! Put that damn contraption on me and give me a shot at disarming the blasted thing."
The man squirmed trying read Bond's famous deadpan expression. "Well, uh, there's no coming back, of course."
Bond's eyes were drill bits into the man's mind. "But, of course," agreed Bond, still giving nothing away.
It's impossible to counter-punch a man who won't punch. Bond threw him a lifeline, flashing an ironic smile. "Kind of makes this entire conversation pointless, doesn't it?"
The knockout blow had its effect, the man dropping his facade, in a struggle for his life.
"I understand how you feel. I read your file. I was recruited like you were. I had my doubts when these pompous buggers made their pitch but I couldn't get their words out of my head."
Bond sipped his martini, recalling that same moment for him - the moment he made The Promise. At least he was being treated with more respect. He leaned back to let the man continue.
"So I think I know how you feel, this sense of betrayal. I've struggled with it myself." In this the man is being genuine, thought Bond. "But I've learned there's two types of evil in the world: both good and bad. We use the good evil to protect us from the bad, so to speak. It's how we ensure the future. And as ridiculous as this sounds, that's a pragmatism I've had to face."
Bond's sense of self-preservation went on red alert. He had no doubt of the struggle possessing the man's soul, of trying to live beyond the crossed line, crying out for both help and murder with the same voice.
"Sounds like a conversation for your pastor," Bond blithely responded, buying time has he calculated the situation.
The man's presence left the moment. "You could say I've already had it."
The 'pastor' in this case would be an overlord in the secret service sanctioning the job - as if one man can sanction another man's murder in the eyes of God.
Could Bond defeat this man? Yes. Could he defeat every man sent to kill him? No. Bond had come too far to look over his shoulder the rest of his life.
Sliding out from the booth, standing as an easy target mere feet away, Bond looked at the man as one who'd faced death before. Everyone must pay for one's sins. Time to pay for mine.
"Then do what you musn't," he offered, his gaze never leaving the man's now anguished face.
Like all assassins, the man had been programmed, cajoled, bribed, and punctured into making the hit. Bond was simply giving him a sense of his immortal soul.
Then something unexpected happened: the man retched, turning his head, coughing and puking on the bench. He felt used, a sucker on a fool's errand, placing blood on his hands like a Roman crucifier, wrecking his own future. No "good" evil, after all.
Bond left the man to himself, slipped out the back door, and checked into an anonymous hotel.
*****
CODA: In ancient Japan, the country was divided between East and West. Ishida of the West took over Osaka castle, an impregnable fortress. His plan was to take hostages from the families of the clans there to force them to his side. First on his list to kidnap was Gracia Hosokawa, the beloved and admired wife of a powerful general. Literate and multi-lingual, she changing her name with her conversion to Catholicism.
Only his plans went awry as Gracia let herself be killed before she'd let herself be taken hostage. The fury and outrage over this bungled attempt forced Ishida to abandon his plans for hostages. In this way, also, the plan to eliminate Bond was discarded.
