So, Sean Connery, first of Eon Productions’ James Bond and the man who most defined the role, has perished.
Around the same time as my grandmother, funny enough, and they were about the same age, too.
I’m a James Bond. I have been for twenty-ish years, ever since my mother and I caught Goldeneye late one night on television. But I do not mourn Mr. Connery, no.
Why? Is it because I believe the allegations of his first wife, Diane Cilento? No. First, whether or not I believe her is irrelevant. Second, I am a fan. That means, day in and day out, I am an active perpetrator of violence and abuse in my own right. My willingness to judge others for the evil they inflict is… decreasing, to say the least. Unless you’re a white supremacist, then fuck you up the asshole with a rusty poker, you genocidal motherfucker.
But none of that has anything to do with why I don’t morn Sean Connery.
I do not mourn Mr. Connery because he lived until ninety years old, and did more in that lifetime than most of us could if we lived twice that long. Coming from a working class Scottish family, Sean went on through a dozen careers to be come the most famous fictional spy ever. He shaped popular culture in a way his successors never could. He starred in over forty movies over forty years and more, a career most actors would kill to have.
Sean Connery did evil. He did good, too. And he lived a life most of us could only dream of.
Don’t mourn the dead. Celebrate them! For they have danced the last dance, and play this fool’s game no more.