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Speak Like a CEO
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The World Is Not Enough (At Least, Not At That Price)
Independent, The (London), Nov 22, 1999 by Deborah Ross
Off to Claridges, the smart London hotel, to meet Pierce Brosnan, the current James Bond. My heart is going "Dun-de-dun-dun-de- dundundun... daa-naa, daa-naa" in that powerfully rhythmic, 007 way. Up in the lift, which is marvellously old-style posh. All gilt and dark red velvet, with a little old man working a clanking lever. I don't think he is Q.
The publicity suite for The World Is Not Enough is on the fourth floor. It may even be the fourth floor. It is frighteningly huge, with what seems like 438 marble bathrooms and 587 lounge suites. The first lounge is filled with swish PR women in black ("Catherine, Pierce must have time for make- up before Clive Anderson, OK?" "Sure, Cynthia. I'll see to it.") and Barbara Broccoli. Barbara Broccoli! Daughter of that legend, Cubby Broccoli, who produced all the Bond films until he died. Now she does! Here's my moment. I will seize it. I sidle over.
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"Hey, Babs!" I say. "Hi," she says. I tell her I was thinking of coming along in a bikini today. As a kind of Bond girl audition. I can be very Ursula Andress, you know. Indeed, last summer, during an Awayday to Clacton, I came out of the sea and actually heard someone whisper: "Goodness me. It's Ursula Andress." OK, I might have been mistaken. OK, they might have whispered: "Ughh, look at her undressed." But that's not very likely, is it? So, how about it, Babs?
This all goes down so well I am led to a side-room. Here, I am told, I can wait for Pierce on my own. I would have minded, I think, but there's a lovely big bowl of fruit in here. These Bond people certainly know how to do things! And the grapes are good. Not seedless, admittedly, but still good. I don't touch the bananas. Bananas are fattening, you know, and I have my new career to think of. I spit the pips into the bin - bing, bing, bing! My aim is shockingly accurate. I might make a better assassin than Bond girl, actually. Sod it, I think I will have that banana after all.
Finally - and four bunches of grapes, seven bananas, six kiwis and a plum later - I'm told Pierce is ready for me. My heart is racing wildly. My heart is going: "Baba-baba-bababa". I think I might have gone out of 007 mode and into Pearl & Dean mode, but these things can happen at times of great excitement.
Into yet another room, and there is Pierce. He is gorgeous. He is beautiful. He has very blue eyes. He has thick, tufty hair, that's spiked-up just right.
Apparently, though, Mr Brosnan is considerably more beautiful from the left than the right. "Take from the left, OK?" he tells the photographer. I tell him he looks perfectly symmetrical to me. He says: "This is the sort of thing you learn when you are in films."
"Excuse me!" I say, "but I finished a film just last week as it happens." "Oh?" he queries, raising a single eyebrow which, yes, he can do masterfully. "Yes," I continue, "and I'm expecting to get it back from Boots any day now." That put him in his place rather, I think.
He is divinely dressed: thick charcoal jumper; soft charcoal trousers; black leather, trendily moulded shoes. Where are your clothes from, Pierce?
"They're just clothes. Just grey slacks and a sweater."
"Where are they from?"
"I'm not telling."
"You might get a discount."
"I already get a discount."
"You might get a bigger one."
"I get them for nothing, OK?"
He is not especially easy-going. It is rather like meeting an expensively elegant yet tightly furled umbrella. I'm not sure he enjoys giving interviews. Do you enjoy giving interviews, Pierce? "I endure,' he sighs wearily. "I have to do so many..." Obviously, he suffers horribly for his art . "Can we talk about the film now?' he asks.
The film. You know, I don't think I've ever seen a Bond film from start to finish until now. This is unusual, I know. Apparently, half the human race has seen at least one. (The World Is Not Enough is the 19th). Mostly, I've just glimpsed bits of them on Christmas Day - snatches of huge explosions, and gold toothed baddies, and whooshing speed boat chases, and casino scenes, because there always seems to be a casino scene, and the gadgets like the watch that can turn itself into a missile launcher or a high- tensile grappling hook, but never anything useful like a new pair of tights for when you've just laddered the ones you've got on.
Plus, of course, the ravishing nuclear scientist whom Bond will get to have sex with in the very last scene. Usually, this is a woman. Usually, she has a highly punnable name, so giving Bond his witty, rather risque payoff line. In The World Is Not Enough this is Dr Christmas Jones, as played by top Hollywood babe Denise Richards. "So," Bond remarks, as they finally emerge from the sheets, "It isn't true what they say... Christmas doesn't come just once a year."
This joke, I feel, is almost up there with one of mine. I say, if he ever gets to star in the Jewish version - The World Is Not Enough (At Least, Not At That Price) - would he consider me as, say, Passover Jones? He raises an eyebrow. And smiles. Almost. An eyebrow and a smile might be quite hard to co-ordinate. It always flummoxed Roger Moore.
