The leather chair in Barbara Broccoli’s London office was older than most of the men who had sat in it. It had cradled Connery’s swagger, Lazenby’s regret, Moore’s raised eyebrow, Dalton’s intensity, and Brosnan’s bittersweet finality. Now, on a grey October morning, it held only silence.

Finney read the scene where he hands Bond a shotgun. “Welcome to Scotland,” the script read.

They weren’t making a spy thriller.

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