Rumours that the Emmy Award-winning writer and actor Phoebe Waller-Bridge is the frontrunner to write and direct the next James Bond film may be slightly implausible — the 37-year-old has hitherto never directed anything and the film’s producers have intimated that the next Bond is still some years away.
But the fevered anticipation that has met the possibility of a “Fleabag Bond” illustrates the extent to which Waller-Bridge’s brand of salty, hypersexualised feminism has penetrated our cultural lives.
Based on her one-woman stage play of the same name, Fleabag was a two-series tragicomedy about a young woman coming to terms with grief, heartbreak and the emotional fallout of a terrible betrayal. It was probably one of the most perfectly accomplished pieces of small-screen storytelling in recent times.
The show established Waller-Bridge as one of the most thrilling young voices in the cultural firmament and provided the catalyst for a stream of subsequent female-led dramas starring earthy, relatable young women with a strong sense of personal style, voracious sexual appetites and total lack of direction: you can see the ghost of Fleabag in everything from Industry (sex, the City and self-absorption) to Extraordinary (sex, superpowers and self-absorption), the Disney+ comedy drama written by Northern Irish screenwriter and comedian Emma Moran.
But while the world has since been populated with Fleabag-alikes, Waller-Bridge herself has ventured down a very different path. Having been head writer of the first series — and an executive producer across all four series — of Killing Eve, starring another unexpected anti-heroine, Waller-Bridge signed a reported “mid-eight-figure” contract with Amazon in September 2019 to develop further shows.
The fruits of that collaboration have been slow in maturation — she walked away from the project she was supposed to be doing with Donald Glover, and is still finessing the details on a new adaptation of the live-action franchise Tomb Raider.
But no one seems to be in a big hurry. The actress was reported to have renewed her contract with the streaming platform in January for a further three-year exclusive deal. Meanwhile, she played the “quippy” droid L3-37 in Solo: A Star Wars Story, with lines that were delivered in her trademark knowing droll. And this summer, she will star in the latest films in the Indiana Jones franchise, Dial of Destiny, in which she will play the archaeologist’s goddaughter in a reboot that has been co-written by another favourite of the British writing establishment, Jerusalem’s Jez Butterworth.
In some ways, Waller-Bridge looks like a sellout. Why else would she be giving these enfeebled, ancient franchises her time? She’s the embodiment of feminine badassery and bawdy humour, so what, other than a massive pay cheque, would persuade her to lend these doddery old screen icons her credibility and edge? She already added “little spices” to the last Bond film, having been drafted in to “help out” with the script of No Time To Die. And little spice she might have added, given the film seemed about nine hours long and was extraordinarily bland.
Besides, 007 is surely the least interesting screen legend with whom to meddle: he’s so pickled in his ways. Even with a brand new agent, new script and new set of double entendres, one can’t imagine the Fleabag Bond ever making a dent in the unreconstructed glory of the world’s suavest super-agent with his sleep-with-a-lass-then-slap-her on-the-ass chauvinistic ways.
Following #MeToo, and a period of gender recalibration in the industry, Hollywood is clearly trying to atone for its past sexist ills. Female writers, producers and directors are now being offered a place at the table, and it’s been both fascinating and slightly horrifying to see the choices being made. Maybe Waller-Bridge’s have been the ultimate in wish fulfilment: what powerful woman wouldn’t want to partner with these ultimate alpha males? Where once she might have been an “auteur” in the industry, today’s female players are more likely to be helming massive summer blockbusters or directing Marvel films.
This week a new online trailer was released for the live-action movie Barbie, a bewilderingly starry ensemble piece directed by indie darling Greta Gerwig, and starring Margot Robbie as the plastic toy. Based on the two minutes of footage up for offer it’s a strange mix of Technicolor irony and sexual innuendo, with lots of articulated joint humour and smutty gags.
And, of course, we should celebrate these milestones: how great it is that female writers and directors are being encouraged to write uninhibitedly — and on huge salaries — about exactly what they please. They should be helming epic blockbusters. And being wildly ambitious. They should also be allowed to fail.
It just feels a little disappointing that often they are only adding a new patina to what are otherwise quite insipid brands. Why add “little spices” when you’ve got so much else to use? Maybe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag Bond will be a full immersion, and she will create a whole new genre of action film. But I miss the subtle poetry of ordinary Fleabag, who spoke quieter, more devastating truths about us all.
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