"Do you expect me to talk?" utters a distinctly desperate 007 about to have his nads bisected by a state-of-the-art laser beam. "No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!" retorts the rotund, ginger baddie known as Auric Goldfinger, as he exits yet another artful techno-dungeon designed to within an inch of its life.
The moment is immortal. A franchise, at film number three, had hit its stride on every count - script (a joy of suave entendre and megalomania), action, sexuality and tension. The series was peaking in Guy Hamilton's risque, macho style, perfectly blending the tenor of Fleming's novels, the ebullient times and Connery's purring virility like a wild animal contained in a tweed suit.
](https://www.mustard.co.uk/blog/hollywoods-leading-car-couples/hollywoods-leading-car-couples?auto=format&w=1440&q=80)
You only have to tot up the iconic ingredients to remind yourself of why it is that Goldfinger truly embodies the smouldering escapist genius of the 007 movies: the pristine tuxedo emerging from beneath the wetsuit, the gadget-laden Aston Martin, Oddjob's steel-rimmed bowler, Shirley Eaton smothered in gold paint, the nuclear bomb's countdown halted at "007", a flying circus of dollybirds and naming your leading lady Pussy Galore. "I must be dreaming," returns the supine superspy.
