After a dozen years of sabbatical, Sean Connery slips into the old tuxedo, wraps his fist around a cold martini and reclaims the role of James Bond for one last lap around the racetrack. Connery looks rather gray for the part, but neither he nor the filmmakers shy away from that. Rather, he's portrayed as an old spy come out of retirement, with a renewed reliance on gadgets and sneaky tricks in lieu of dust-ups or more physical slices of action. That's admirably honest, particularly in contrast to Eon’s stubborn insistence that fifty-six year old Roger Moore was not an older man at all, and it might've paid off, had the ensuing film shown any sense of style or panache.

Instead, Never Say Never Again is thoroughly safe, flat and workmanlike, as though it were already looking forward to cashing checks for the sequel. There's no fire to the plot, no energy to the performances. Sir Sean seems perfectly content to let his mere presence do all the work, showing no sign of the magnetic, charismatic personality that once made him so irresistible. Much of the film's structure feels silly and out-of-date, too, perhaps reaching for familiar material to put the aging superstar at ease. Even the big set pieces land with a thud. How is it possible for a jetpack chase to feel so boring?

Grinding through the last hour is a terrible chore, drug out and underwhelming as it is. By that point, it's already obvious that not even James Bond can pull out of this tailspin.