Even the Bond offering of 1969, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, ended in tears. Actually one tear. A single well placed tear on Bond’s dashing cheek as he cradled his new bride, whose brains had just been neatly blown out by the villainous Blofeld. Sad. Not the tear or the brains but Bond’s lame attempt to regain some sort of relevance. By ’69 it was clear: James Bond was the Old Spice Sailor with a license to kill, and the Zeitgeist had left without him. Oh, how little I knew about marketing.