How could this happen? A James Bond film—fully loaded with bespoke suits, chiseled jaws, clever chase scenes, gorgeous international scenic vistas, and Daniel Craig—that is nonetheless boring?

But it did happen.

I think what bothered me most – both during the film and long afterward – was the sheer boring long boring predictable boring length of it. Skyfall delivers ALL the James Bond action, and then some, in its powerhouse opening and first half hour. The incredible fight on top of the train zooming through low tunnels; the unbelievable rooftop motorcycle chase through Istanbul; Daniel Craig in a suit. Except for the puppydog cutsyness of Naomie Harris as the new Moneypenny character, I loved the casting.

And the film’s distinctly existentialist conceit— that Bond is getting long in the tooth, almost dies going over a massive waterfall, disappears into the tropics where he drinks and does other things too much and then returns on M’s doorstep one night, unshaven, shaken but not stirred—all of it worked to rev up a new and intriguing sort of 007 momentum. Fabulous cinematography, tons of dramatic tension, and a sense that this is a Bond who is beginning to question each new outing in the Queen’s service.

Come time to add a new classic bad guy to this mix, Javier Bardem obliges as only he can. Slick and oleoginous as the brilliant troubled villain Silva, Bardem reminded me of the mercurial Klaus Brandauer in Never Say Never Again sparring with the born-again Sean Connery and a very leggy Kim Basinger.

At this point I need to send up a red flag – spoiler alert —probably not necessary since everyone in the free world has already seen Skyfall. I say red flag because so much of the film’s momentum grinds to a halt when one (one of many insuing) key plot turn occurs. Halfway through we meet the love-slave girlfriend of Bardem’s character—a gorgeous, complicated EurAsian called Severine (played by Berenice Marlohe) who casts a spell on Craig, and most of us as well. They get together in a shower—literally and metaphorically steamy. Alllllrlight, I’m thinking – now we have all the pieces in place for a powerhouse caper and denouement.

But no. The filmmakers do an unforgiveable thing— they kill off the enigmatic, troubled Severine only a few minutes after we’ve gotten involved with her. Just as momentum-killing is the lack of any development of this alleged back story between Judi Dench’s M character and Silva, who turns out to be a former MI6 agent turned rogue assassin. Bardem implies that some deep bond existed once between them but that Dench somehow betrayed him. And he’s never forgotten that.  Yet we are told this in a few toss-away lines that amount to a big fat nothing. Another wasted opportunity to reel in the viewers who by this point in the film would follow Bardem anywhere.

I have no problem with the expansion, or perhaps deepening is more accurate, of the Bond character, still a lean mean killling machine but now with plenty of psychological baggage and even a whisper of scepticism to blend with his wry sense of wit. More in the rough trade line of leading men than obvious pretty boy, Craig can easily pull off moments of guarded sensitivity in between his set jaw grittiness. His license to kill is now part of his DNA, yet somehow a new sense of almost poetic weariness has set in—all of which would be great if there had been a director and a script to support such character complexity.

The final half hour of Skyfall feels like an interminable rainy weekend. We are asked to sit on the edge of our seats while two very elderly people—Dench and Albert Finney for godsakes, looking embalmed and bewigged—equip a very dark old mansion in the middle of nowhere Scotland for the stand-off against Silva’s hit squad that is surely coming. How can this many explosions and this much techno-firepower be so utterly tedious? Don’t know. Perhaps this is the true mystery of the latest James Bond installment. It is quite possible that this franchise has outlived its run.