As any Bond Girl knows, an essential component of everyday glamour is a handsome man on your arm, so my youngest Great Beauty and I persuaded the most handsome male we know to accompany us to Designing 007 – Fifty Years of Bond Style at the Barbican.
Sadly, the Barbican did not allow photos to be taken inside the exhibition, so we can’t show him getting his Bond on in the gun barrel entrance.
The first room was the room of gold in which a Jill Masterson dummy lay forever gold, forever dead on a revolving round bed. The dummy wore a pair of bikini briefs: we were pleased that the accompanying video montage allowed us to confirm that the real Jill wore nothing but an artfully placed cushion. Our young companion had made it clear that he was only interested in Blofeld, Dr No and Scaramanga. The video montage was a big hit with him, as he was thrilled to discover that Scaramanga is also Saruman, Count Dooku and Count Dracula. He does so love a villain. He watched enraptured and unflinching when Scaramanga took a bullet in the chest but was forced to avert his gaze during the terrifying kissing scenes.
The exhibition was very busy (timed entry and all that) which meant that in the next room – set up to represent M’s Office – we were a bit squashed and hampered in our close examination of Bond’s medical records, his overcoat and Homburg and the cards pinned to the wall that outlined the life and influences of Ian Fleming. Besides, we were excited to move on to Q Branch … who doesn’t like to gaze at pictures of lovely Desmond Llewelyn and a few old guns and knives and stuff.
Unfortunately, M’s Office and Q Branch turned out to be the best bits by far.
The Casino featured mannequins in evening dress from various films and whilst dull for our young man, should have engrossed us. But it didn’t. The mannequins were AWFUL. Hulking grey things with spongy fingers, that made every single dress – even the white one worn by Dominetta Vitali in Thunderball – look dull and tacky and slightly Brentford Nylons.
Flat and slightly aggrieved, we continued. We flickered with interest at the voodoo flags from Live and Let Die, and Solitaire’s tarot set-up. But it was just a flicker. The models of the sinking pallazo from Casino Royale were interesting, but by now our young man was anxious to reach Villains and Enigmas. As were we.
Hmmmm. Big black and white photo room dividers are always quite good to look at, especially when Rosa Klebb adorns them. But only one Blofeld? “Where’s the Blofeld with the monocle?” shrieked our young man, rightly incensed at this cavalier treatment of No 1 in the SPecial Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion. We were slightly mollified by the Barbican choosing to make Blofeld’s cat the largest room divider (and so by definition, greatest villain) of all. We all agreed that we would like a pair of winklepickers with kick-knife inserts. Our young man pointed out, very sadly, that ‘winklepickers squash your toes’ which is why he is not allowed any, even though he has wanted some since he was three.
There were costumes in the Villain’s room too. Madonna’s was nice. The Prada dress from Quantom of Solace was gorgeous. The Gucci raincoat from Casion Royale looked like H&M, unless you leant close enough to see ‘Gucci’ on the buttons. We made our way to The Ice Palace having decided that thespians earn their wages by their ability not to shriek “Fuckin’ hell: you’re short! You’re bloody vertically restricted! Oh – and your costume looks shit!” at one another each time they roll up on set.
Oh God, the Ice Palace. We shouldn’t have gone really – we’re Sean girls all the way and this was just a load of tired old set and costumes from Tomorrow Never Dies. We sniffed disdainfully at the furs, disparaged the ice sculptures and headed for the shop.
WE SPENT NOTHING IN THE SHOP. Seriously. Nothing. This is unheard of. We quite often spend disgracefully large amounts in an exhibition shop when we haven’t even attended the actual exhibition. But there was literally nothing we wanted. And given that we are Bond book fanatics, and Connery-Bond devotees, who had arrived expecting to be tempted and to succumb, isn’t this something of a disgrace? We had steeled ourselves for a lot of later film stuff. We really had. But all the marketing featured Connery – the posters, the quotes – and so the exhibition itself left us feeling cheated.
Could we be tempted by the martini bar? Well, we did like it – but only enough to treat our 007and1/2 to a Babytini. If ever a boy needed a Babytini and a restoring sweet cigarette, this was that boy, but sadly sweet cigarettes are no longer available over the counter, and we don’t have the underworld connections required to access them. I bet I could get some if I worked at SPECTRE.
On the way out, we passed this model of James Bond (the real James Bond) and his Aston Martin. There was a security guard present to stop ladies from mounting the mannequin, or making off with it having failed to find anything to buy in the shop, which is why it is not now in iBeheld’s underground lair.
I love The Barbican, so am conflicted about writing this post. But all the shots of Sean-era Bond used in the marketing made me feel I’d be getting a lot more Kiss Kiss Bang Bang for my buck than I did. And as the exhibition charged for under-16s to attend, I had spent quite a lot of buck on the visit.
Let’s finish on  a happier note. Who wouldn’t love to see this licence plate bearing down on them in their rear-view mirror, or indeed, pulling up to their bumper.
iBeheld loves James, for always. She is The Eye Who Loves Him.
