The movie is good. It’s not great—not the way The Hildebrand Rarity was great—but it’s not bad either. It’s not the train wreck that everyone was expecting and (let’s be honest) hoping for.

If the altercation between Parker and director Ryan Ulrich hadn’t been recorded and then leaked online, then we, as a culture, would probably proclaim this film to be a fairly solid but unimpressive Bond film.

Instead, it’s a memorandum of two things.

The first, of course, is Parker as Bond. Could he maintain the magic he’d initially brought to the franchise despite the obvious disagreements on set spilling outward?

Yes and no. Watching it with a critical eye, it’s easy to see the rift, the dissonance between what the actor is willing to bring and what the director wants.

As for the ravages of Parker’s alcoholism, whoever did the costumes and makeup deserves an Oscar. You would have never known that the Gabe Parker we saw months later, heavy and bearded, taking a walk on the grounds of his rehab facility, is the same Parker in the movie.

And then there’s the fact that Risico is the first film released since Oliver Matthias’s stunning admission that, contrary to what Ulrich and the Bond producers originally claimed, Parker was not their first choice. As we all know now, Matthias was offered the part, only to have it rescinded when he told the Bond team that he was gay and did not want to remain in the closet.

It’s hard to watch Ulrich’s Bond trilogy now without thinking of that. Without imagining what it would have been like if Matthias had actually gotten a chance to play Bond.

At least we all now know the context for Parker’s once-cryptic, volatile parting shot, which was seen in the viral video from the set. Where he turned to Ulrich and practically spat, “You got the actor you deserved.”

Now

Chapter 22

Chapter
22

THERE’S A GLASS OF WATER on the bedside table.

Embarrassment is a hot, prickly wash over my entire body as I remember what happened.

Gabe standing in front of me, his hand in my hair, eyes focused on mine.

“I could make you happy,” he’d said.

I had wanted him to kiss me. To pull me into his arms, kiss me, and take me to bed.

Instead, just as I tilted my head back, eyes fluttering shut, preparing for his lips to meet mine, he’d withdrawn his hand and stepped back.

“You’ve been drinking,” he’d said.

“It’s okay,” I’d whispered.

It was, of course, the absolute wrong thing to say. Because even though I hadn’t been drunk, I definitely had been drinking. The whisky on my breath probably hadn’t been the greatest turn-on for a recovering alcoholic.

Gabe had kindly, gently, shown me to my room and closed the door on his way out.