"ONCE again, there is no milk today", says Colonel Stok, played by Oskar Homolka, in the 1966 Michael Caine film 'Funeral in Berlin'.
"And so Russian tea was invented", quips Caine’s character, the British spy Harry Palmer.
How times change: during the age of Harry Palmer and his silver screen rival James Bond, it was the Eastern Bloc that was associated with empty shelves, fuel shortages and queues round the block for basic supplies; the sort of things Jeremy Corbyn would happily lock himself in the bathroom for.
But getting back to Palmer and Bond, both of course were men of their time: lethal, ruthless, successful with the ladies while not especially politically correct in their pursuit of them; they were masculine characters in a still masculine age. Sadly, Harry Palmer (by far the more interesting and complex character of the two) didn’t stay the course beyond three movies.
Bond, with his license to kill, navigates the world with the poise of a ballet dancer, albeit one armed with gadgets and an explosive charm. His adventures are set against the backdrop of exotic locales, where each villain's lair seems to outdo the last in opulence and absurdity. Bond's gadgets, from his wristwatch that could do everything but make the tea, to cars that drive themselves from the depths of villainy, are the stuff of a boy's dream, a gadgeteer's fantasy.
Contrast this with Palmer, whose espionage is far more grey and gritty, his London less a playground than a labyrinth of mundane bureaucracy and cold war tension. Palmer's gadgets are less flamboyant; his weapon of choice might be as simple as a kitchen knife, his spycraft more about the art of survival in a world where the glamour is stripped away, leaving one with the stark reality of the Cold War.
Where Bond's adventures are underscored by John Barry's lush scores, Palmer's world is one of silence, or perhaps the hum of a tube train, his music the clink of teacups rather than orchestral swells. Bond's identity is his allure, a byword for luxury and danger; Palmer's is his anonymity, a man who could disappear into the crowd, his greatest asset his unremarkable presence.
The question then, of who one would rather be, hinges on whether one prefers their espionage with the garnish of glamour or the bare bones of necessity. Would one choose the life of a Bond, where every mission is a chance to wear another impeccable suit, or that of Palmer, where the suit might be off the rack, but the stakes are no less high?
In the end, perhaps the choice speaks to one's view of the world: Bond's is one of endless possibility, of global escapades where the only limit is one's imagination or the next scriptwriter's plot twist. Palmer's, however, is a mirror to the real, where the spy game is less about saving the world and more about navigating the mundane with wit and, when necessary, a bit of violence.
So, would you be a spy in the mould of Bond, with all the trappings of a life lived in the fast lane, or would you opt for the quieter, more cerebral existence of Palmer, where the thrill is less in the chase and more in the chess game of survival? In this, as in all things, the choice is a reflection of one's soul, or perhaps, one's taste in cinema.