LICENSE TO KILL (1989) *1/2 The worst James Bond ever finishes his term in style with the dumbest Bond flick. Timothy Dalton is just not credible as a handsome and brilliant secret agent; methamphetamine salesman in search of product-probably; unemployed offshoreman down on his luck and reduced to shaving stubble with used razors-definitely; ambivalent result of genetic hybrid experiment involving lab rats-already way more interesting than the premise we're given instead. Clinging to the worst of the '80s the alleged plot involves international cocaine overlords, Contras, and squinting guys in suits. There are no terribly clever weapons and Bond drives from one disastrously dull scene to the next in a Lincoln Town Car (or is it a Mercury? or a Taurus?) or freight truck. So we're left with a Bond film without a Bond, without interesting gadgets, without a cool car, and without any memorable Bond women. The one really good part is when Dalton masquerades as a manta ray, and the bit where Wayne Newton televises drug sales disguised as telethon contributions is better than the rest. The only other entertaining aspects involve things that aren't on the screen: Hollywood yes-men assuring Dalton that he's the most macho Bond ever, and what that bar in Bimini looks like at closing time when all the drunk people inadvertently play bumper boats while trying to leave.
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