Spectre, Sam Mendes‘ latest riff on the classic James Bond formula, comes with all the trimmings fans have come to expect from the undying international superspy series: Daniel Craig‘s 007 kicks henchman ass, kisses gorgeous women, sips on his famous martinis, stares death square in the face more than once, and causes some serious property damage as he visits some of the most ridiculously picturesque places on earth in search of a European big bad hellbent on world domination. It’s the same old schtick, but it’s a schtick millions have come to embrace as a moviegoing staple, one we can count on to deliver insanely expensive-looking action and a fair amount of clean-cut operatic drama. It’s a good Bond film, though there’s nothing remarkable enough about it that it’ll be a standout in the series.

As he’s liable to do, Christoph Waltz plays the film’s central villain, Oberhauser, a worldwide crime boss and tech terrorist who plans to hold humanity in his clutches via some kind of big brother surveillance system. Bond’s path to finding Oberhauser starts in Mexico City, where he causes an explosive international incident involving a helicopter spinning out of control above the city’s annual Dia de los Muertos celebration. It’s an eye-popping opener with clever staging (Bond’s life is saved by a couch) and a sky-high fight scene that’s sure to have those afraid of heights hanging onto their armrests for dear life.

Following his mid-air dance of death, Bond’s journey takes him to Rome, then back home to London, then to Austria, then to Tangier, and back to London again. Mendes doesn’t stray from the series’ touristic traditions one bit, throwing up jaw-dropping locales onto the screen rapid-fire. From the snowy peaks of Austria to the serene desert sprawl of Tangier, mother earth looks her beauty-pageant best, and she’s rocking some shiny jewelry to boot: the baddies’ fortresses look like marvels of modern architecture and the stunning cars Bond rockets around in will make you drool. Bond movies have become increasingly obsessed with suit-modeling and vista-ogling in recent years, but that’s not a bad thing. At least not yet.

Bond’s allies aren’t in short supply in his latest romp: M (Ralph Fiennes), Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), and gadget maven Q (Ben Wishaw) have all got 007’s back, though the bad guys’ eyes-everywhere tech prevents them from aiding Bond remotely. Spending the most time with him is newbie Madeleine Swann (Lea Seydoux), the latest addition to his ever-growing list of doomed lovers. She’s the daughter of an old villain who operated under the Oberhauser umbrella, and she insists she’s got no interest in bedding James like the rest of his international floozies. But who’s she fooling? After a romantic train ride and a close-quarters fistfight with one of Oberhauser goons (Guardians of the Galaxy‘s Dave Bautista), the sexual tension becomes too strong for even the strong-willed Madeleine to resist.

Craig’s got his Bond routine down to a science by now, hunting down his villainous prey with that same signature cold-eyed scowl he uses to make women melt. He’s a very good James Bond, but what slows him down in Spectre is his romance with Seydoux’s Madeleine, which unfolds in such a cursory fashion it’s laughable. She confesses her love for him after spending only a few days together, and even an actor of Seydoux’s talent can’t make such an unlikely leap in affection feel natural. If this is the girl Bond’s meant to consider leaving the spy life for, the writers (Neal Purvis, John Logan, Robert Wade, Jez Butterworth) don’t do enough to convince us of it.

Thankfully, the rushed romance one of only two of the film’s major downers (the other is the movie’s theme song, by Sam Smith, which is insufferable). The action set pieces are all show-stoppers, though the thrills of the opening helicopter scene are never outdone. A close-quarters fight scene between Craig, Bautista and Seydoux is a lot of fun and reminds us that Mendes doesn’t need pricey visual effects to keep us on the edge of our seats (the scene’s absence of music is a great touch that makes the brawl doubly tense). The movie isn’t exactly action-packed, though, as the explosions and car chases are used to punctuate the long stretches of character development/plot progression. Skyfall had a more striking and cohesive visual style than Spectre does (shadows and blackness are the recurring themes, but none of the inky images stick), but Mendes’ craftsmanship is never less than elegant and fully composed.

There’s a twist to Waltz’s character that I won’t spoil here, but what I will say is that he disappoints, again, by playing a villain exactly the way we all expect him to. The man’s capable of great things, but we’ve seen him play this smirking, unfazed, cold-blooded a million times before, and it’s a letdown every time he decides to stay in the pocket and not add any new dimensions to his act. Harris and Wishaw make a better effort, and it’ll be nice to continue watching them support Bond in future entries.

If Skyfall was the pinnacle of Craig’s run as Bond, Spectre signals a slight downturn and a need for the series to break new ground and redefine who James Bond is for the next generation. Mendes has made a fine movie that pays homage to Bond lore in surprising and delightful ways (there’s something off about that Oberhauser…) but it feels like the timing’s right for a change of the guard. Craig is perhaps the quintessential alpha-male Bond, always in control of his situation and surroundings; maybe it’s time for a double-0 who gets a bit more shaken and stirred in the face of danger.

After the massive success of Skyfall–the biggest James Bond film ever—it was rather surprising to see all the trouble it took to get Spectre off the ground—especially in today’s sequel driven culture. Originally, Oscar-winning director Sam Mendes said he felt “physically ill” at the prospect of returning to the spy series—even after smashing box office records and racking up awards nods. Rumors swirled around the developing picture for months before it was finally confirmed that Mendes would direct. Now, with a new trailer arriving today, we can all be thankful that he did.

While most of the plot has been kept tightly under wraps, what we do know is, Spectre finds Bond (the only-getting-handsomer Daniel Craig) confronted with a cryptic message from his long-hidden past that leads to an encounter with the mysterious organization Spectre. All the while the new M (Ralph Fiennes) takes on political adversaries to keep the British secret service alive.

Written by the same team behind Skyfall (John Logan, Neal Purvis, and Robert Wade) Spectre hopes to capitalize on the reinvigorated tone of the franchise and make another cool billion. To boot, the support here is deep, rounded out by Lea Seydoux, Christoph Waltz, Dave Bautista (Guardians of the Galaxy), and Monica Bellucci.

Spectre arrives November 6th.

The sad news has now surely reached all that the irreplaceable Sir Christopher Lee has died at the age of 93 on Sunday, June 7th.

Most millennials would easily recall Lee as Count Dooku from the apocryphal prequel episodes of Star Wars or the crooked white wizard, Saruman, in Peter Jackson’s first Lord of the Rings trilogy. Those slightly older probably know him best as Dracula from the Hammer Horror series, or Bond villain Francisco Scaramanga in The Man with the Golden Gun (coincidentally, he was step-cousin to Ian Fleming through his mother’s second marriage). With over 280 acting credits to his name, Lee was one of the most prolific actors of all time. He was close friends with Hammer Horror co-star Peter Cushing, with whom he shared a May 27th birthday

But everyone, young and old, knows him as an ultimate evil persona. Because that’s what he did best over the course of his 70-year acting career.

With his piercing eyes, eyebrows we’d swear were alive, and snarling, spider-esque fingers, the towering 6’5″ Lee was in step with the likes of Vincent Price, Lon Chaney, and Bela Lugosi in his ability to crawl into creepy characters of cunning and dastardly intentions. We relished in his rich and bellowing operatic vocal tones, for which he was classically trained and even graced the track of many a heavy metal album including Charlemagne: By the Sword and the Cross in 2010 as well as Charlemagne: The Omens of Death in 2013. Knighted in 2009 for his service to drama and charity, he received the BAFTA Fellowship in 2011 and the BFI Fellowship in 2013 as well. Most stunning to some might be that, in his passing, he leaves behind his wife of 53 years, Gitte Lee.

There will never be another Sir Christopher Lee, but his legacy of villainy reaching over three generations while he was living will reach countless more. If only we do our due diligence. He cannot be forgotten.

Sir Christopher Lee as “Francisco Scaramanga” in The Man with the Golden Gun.

Celebrities have taken to Twitter today to share their thoughts and remembrances of this great actor:

An extraordinary man and life lead, Sir Christopher Lee. You were an icon, and a towering human being with stories for days. We'll miss you.

— Elijah Wood (@woodelijah) June 11, 2015

I wish I'd met Sir Christopher Lee. I was so lucky & proud to have had him play the Earl in @BBCRadio4 Neverwhere. Great actor, great loss.

— Neil Gaiman (@neilhimself) June 11, 2015

So so sorry to hear that #christopherlee has passed away. He was a fascinating person. Threw a bic pen into a tree in front of me. #legend

— Dominic Monaghan (@DomsWildThings) June 11, 2015

In 2010, Matthew Vaughn’s Kick-Ass, based on the Mark Millar comic book, sent up, honored, and brutalized the super hero/crimefighter mythos. With Kingsman: The Secret Service, another comic book adaptation, Vaughn and Millar do the same for the myth of the English gentleman superspy; tailored suits, martinis, highly improbable action set pieces, flamboyant criminal masterminds–no cliché is safe. It’s a sadistic 21st-century attitude adjustment for the sub-genre that Bond built, a gory, vulgar, hilarious frenzy of a movie. It’s a bit of a mess, with wonky pacing and several underdeveloped ideas, but it’s got the same appeal as a rickety wooden roller coaster: it’s dangerous and questionably constructed, but that makes it exciting and fun, in a perverse, death-wish sort of way.

Those who’ve watched the misleading trailer for the film and expect an elegant, international spy thriller populated by posh English fellows will be thrown for a loop, and I’m pretty sure Vaughn’s laughing his ass off about it. It’s apparent that you’re getting more than you bargained for from the get-go, when a man gets split in half, dome-to-balls, by a blade-footed female assassin (Sofia Boutella), his halves flopping to the floor like sliced bread. The assassin works for the film’s big-bad, an American psycho-billionaire with a Mike Tyson lisp named Richmond Valentine (Samuel L. Jackson), who’s scheming to cleanse the world via bloodlust-inducing microchips.

The only ones who can stop him are Kingsman, an independent espionage league made up of dapper chaps who speak the Queen’s English, have Arthurian codenames, and have a secret stockpile of deadly gadgets (bulletproof umbrellas, cigarette-lighter grenades) hidden behind a secret door in a Savile Row tailor shop. Colin Firth plays Harry Hart (codename “Galahad”), a Kingsman who, in the movie’s first scene, leads his team on a Middle East interrogation mission that ends with the death of his protégé. 17 years later, another Kingsman dies on a mission (the poor “sliced bread” guy, “Lancelot”), and Harry must find his replacement. He chooses his deceased protégé’s now-adult son, Eggsy (Taron Egerton), to be his new recruit and, potentially, the new Lancelot. The parkour-practicing Eggsy leaps at the opportunity; since his father’s death, he and his delirious mom have been stuck in a ratty apartment, having to put up with his drunk stepdad’s abuse on the daily. He’s had a tough upbringing and is thoroughly rough around the edges, a far cry from the immaculately-dressed and composed Harry or Arthur (Michael Caine), the dignified leader of Kingsman, but he’s willing to learn the ways.

When Harry brings Eggsy back to Kingsman HQ to meet the other young candidates for the Lancelot position (Oxford-educated snobs who look down on Eggsy’s working-class pedigree), the film goes the teenage-bootcamp route, á la Ender’s Game, Harry Potter, and Vaughn’s own X-Men: First Class. Eggsy’s interactions with the sniveling bullies (his only friend is Roxy, played by Sophie Cookson, the sole girl in the group) aren’t nearly as entertaining and easy as his scenes with Firth. The superspy training segments, which include a superfluous synchronized skydive and an exercise in seduction that has “deleted scene” written all over it, are the least engaging bits of the movie, and always seem to drag on longer than you’d like.

Business picks up when Harry is attacked whilst investigating Valentine’s operation, and from there the film gets injected with a giant shot of frenetic mega-violence akin to the films of Neveldine and Taylor (Crank, Gamer), which I happen to get a kick out of despite them being widely panned by critics and audiences alike for their excessive use of blood and mutilation. Vaughn’s bravura scene involves Harry, brainwashed by one of Valentine’s microchips, going on a rampage through a Kentucky church, slaughtering dozens of white supremacists in a flurry of gun ballet, set to “Free Bird”. Depending on your taste in action movies, you’ll either find it disgraceful and repulsive or gloriously entertaining. I fell on the side of the latter, and while Kingsman is a largely indulgent and sometimes shallow affair, I couldn’t help but have a good time. The bite of the goriest moments is also alleviated by the film’s cheeky, jocular tone; it’s not taking itself too seriously, and we’re not meant to either.

There are some seeds of ideas peppered throughout the script (written by Vaughn and regular collaborator Jane Goldman) that are meant to turn the notion of the spy-thriller on its head, but they aren’t given enough time to grow. When Jackson’s Valentine breaks away from the Bond-villain stereotype by shooting one of the main characters in the head instead of inexplicably imprisoning them, he hits the nail squarely on the head when he taunts, “This isn’t that kind of movie” (a line that’s revisited later in a similar context). It’s true that this isn’t your average spy movie by any measure, but it isn’t a revelatory twist on the sub-genre either. When a great stand-up comedian like Chris Rock or the late Richard Pryor exposes the absurdity of a subject on stage, like racism or the government or sexism, they do it from all angles, with no mercy, dissecting and dissecting until there’s nothing left but a bloody pulp. Then, they provide new insight that reveals the real truth of the matter. Kingsman forgets to do that last part.

Vaughn is a filmmaker of flair, and with Kingsman he struts his stuff like there’s no tomorrow. Whenever violence erupts, it’s with the force and magnitude of a supervolcano, and though the cuts and zooms are frequent, they never become redundant, and the staging is well organized. The film jumps around a lot (across the globe, across themes), but Eggsy and Harry are the glue that keeps the film from spinning out of control. Egerton’ street-smart swagger just right, and though the movie isn’t exactly brimming with heart or sentimentality, he manages to imbue it with a sense of youthful nobility. Through the success of his previous films, Vaughn’s earned the prerogative to make the kind of movies he wants to make, throwing convention to the wind. He’s not going to please everyone with Kingsman, but there’s no doubt he’s pleased himself. It’s a treat for genre nuts with a fondness for the grotesque, silly, and outlandish, its cult status is sure to grow with time.