I’ve been watching the James Bond movies from the beginning — Dr. No, From Russia with Love, and tonight, Goldfinger.
It’s been… oddly enjoyable.
Sean Connery really is excellent — cool, sharp, effortlessly composed. You can see why people fell in love with him.
But there’s something else too — something missing.
They’re fun, but feel strangely hollow. Like the story is just a beautiful shell: cars, cocktails, danger, and desire. But no soul.
Tonight was Goldfinger — and that one was wild. A golf match with the villain, a woman murdered and covered in gold paint, and the legendary Pussy Galore (a name I’ve heard for decades but never actually met until now).
Part of me enjoys turning my mind off for these — letting the old style and swagger wash over me.
Another part wonders… maybe that’s the point.
Maybe Bond’s emptiness — his glamour without grounding — mirrors something in all of us. That craving for distraction, style, and control, when what we really want is something real.
Still… it’s fun to watch.
And who knows — maybe in watching him, I’m watching a mirror of a man learning what actually matters.