Goldfinger (1964)

“Goldfinger” is arguably the high-point of Sean Connery’s run as James Bond, when the series stormed pop culture and the world. It’s also damn awkwardly dated as far as the women go as it plays with forced entanglement as foreplay. Take a breath, it is of its time period. The plot –- unlike later, unnecessarily busy Bond films -– is simple: Bond must track down gold smuggler Auric Goldfinger (Gert Frobe) who has a perverse idea about knocking out Fort Knox so that he can take control of the world’s gold market. Or some such. Who cares? The bad guy’s pilot/dame is named Pussy Galore (Honor Blackman). And Bond’s first bed quest ends up smothered in gold paint. There’s also a mad granny with a machine gun, and that Aston Martin, plus Oddjob and the killer bowler hat. It’s camp entertainment delivered dead pan, and that’s missing in the newer run, for better and worse. Connery is effortless. Bond is Connery, and Connery is Bond, is there any argument? And as Goldfinger, Frobe is a plain-spoken man of evil, but a man. No disfigurement. No foamy outbursts. Just a snake. The crazy good music? That’s never been better. A-