What I remember most about seeing Octopussy in the summer of 1983 is that my overprotective mother actually took me, then 12, and my 9-year-old brother to see a movie titled Octopussy. This was, after all, a woman who forbade us from rewatching Grease 2 because it was “too racy,” and yet here was a film more or less bearing the name Eight Vaginas. I guess because it was a 007 adventure, it was deemed okay.

The only other things I remember about it was that James Bond snuck through a lagoon in a tiny submersible disguised as a crocodile, which is pretty cool, and that James Bond dressed up as a goddamn circus clown, which is not. So how in the hell did I forget the most cringeworthy part: James Bond swinging on jungle vines as Johnny Weissmuller’s famous Tarzan yell yodel-ay-hee-hooed on the soundtrack?

I have a theory: Because Octopussy makes for a dreadfully dull picture. If it isn’t quite the single-worst entry of the franchise, it can take a quantum of solace that its Rita Coolidge theme song is.

Officially the 13th 007 installment — and the penultimate go-round for Roger Moore — the pic gets off to a good start as our secret-agent hero pilots a one-man plane out of a horse’s ass, but in this series, those pre-credit sequences — all part of the tried-and-true formula — have zip to do with the story that follows. That to-do involves Fabergé eggs, nuclear weapons and Maud Adams’ nether regions — a full seven uteri short than what’s promised.

The only Bond Girl to play two leads, having brightened The Man with the Golden Gun, Adams fills the role of villainess and, of course, but one of Bond’s conquests; every woman with whom he comes in contact wants to bed him — even the menopausal ones. (Yes, you, Miss Moneypenny.) How did 007 not contract the AIDS virus?

Because he’s a master of escape, duh. Those chase scenes are when John Glen (in his second of five turns as 007 director, from For Your Eyes Only to A View to a Kill) seems to wake up and rouse the film along with him. Standing out is the sequence in which Bond, in a three-wheeled taxi, is pursued through a crowded marketplace in India and utilizes the stereotypical sword swallowers and fire walkers to best his enemies. Those bits are intentionally amusing, but shoved among them is a supremely silly sight gag on tennis that has no business being here; I suspect producer Albert “Cubby” Broccoli stuck it in just to nudge and wink at his buddies back at the club. —Rod Lott

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Despite toiling as a sexy spy, the comic-strip character Modesty Blaise never quite caught on in America. A 1966 movie based on Peter O’Donnell’s creation, Modesty Blaise, was made anyway, with Monica Vetti and Terence Stamp. It tanked.

A few decades later, Miramax had the great idea of reviving Blaise for an intended series of action-packed films; arbiter of pop-culture taste Quentin Tarantino agreed, hopping aboard as a producer. Whereas Natasha Henstridge and Reese Witherspoon were mentioned for the role, no one was cast until Miramax’s rights were due to expire. Only then did the indie studio rush a Romanian-lensed prequel into production. Shot in 18 days by Tarantino pal Scott Spiegel (From Dusk Till Dawn 2: Texas Blood Money), it stars neither Henstridge nor Witherspoon, but the unknown (and, looking malnourished, unsexy) Alexandra Staden (Alexandra Staden, The Task). Is this any way to start a franchise?

The answer is, as My Name Is Modesty makes painfully clear, no. The string-beaned Modesty pulls double duty as a casino card dealer and bodyguard. When its owner is brutally murdered and the joint’s fully vested employees taken hostage by the killer Miklos (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Mama), Modesty keeps her cool and makes a wager with him. They play roulette, and whoever wins the round earns a reward: she, a released hostage; he, personal intel about Modesty.

This being fiction, Miklos has absolutely incredible luck at the wheel, as he wins nearly every spin. Thus, Modesty fills him in on her upbringing — cue the flashbacks! — as a filthy orphan saved by a kindly old professor (Fred Pearson, 1994’s Priest) who taught her reading and kung fuing.

Modesty and Miklos talk and talk and talk and talk. And talk! Then, at the movie’s tail end, some half-assed gunfire and utterly weak martial arts erupt. Sad to say, but this tiny film — one that, at just 78 minutes, barely qualifies as one — takes place in one room and sorely lacks action, suspense, espionage or intrigue. And yet the powers that be at Miramax still had the gall to subtitle it A Modesty Blaise Adventure. (To be fair, that four-word subtitle is 75 percent representative of the flick’s contents.)

The one-room set isn’t the only tip-off that Miramax didn’t shell out more than a pittance for this sluggish mess. Another big one is its look, bearing the drab visage of a syndicated TV action hour. Worse, with the generic music, the chintzy title sequence that incorporates scenes we’ll soon see, the questionably attractive actresses and the swarthy-looking muscular males, the secret-agent origin story threatens to turn into softcore Cinemax fare at any moment.

But don’t go looking for flesh. Her name is, after all, Modesty. —Rod Lott

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