The other night the New York branch of the British Academy of Film and Television Artists invited their American cousins to a pub quiz at a bar downtown. I arrived with a pair of friends, ready to face the trivia and was almost immediately daunted by the James Bond category.

I was well into adulthood before I saw a complete James Bond movie. As a child, I saw one flickering on the television and I tuned in long enough to see a scantily-clad beauty being drowned in a tank to prove that the villain was evil. I decided to stick with “The Avengers.” The second James Bond movie I saw, I saw on Christmas. There was a character named Christmas in it, a nuclear physicist played by Denise Richards. I had so much trouble getting my head around that that I could barely follow the story, which had something to do with an oil pipe, a French girl with Stockholm Syndrome and the usual explosions, chases, deceptions, quips, and utterances of the word “plutonium” by Denise Richards.

The first James Bond movie I saw was “Dr. No,” and I think that viewing also took place during Christmas, when my friend Chris (of “Chris and Kris and Hyperhedonism” – hello again!) became so outraged by my assertion that I had never seen a James Bond movie that he got into his car and drove to Blockbuster and came back with “Dr. No.”

Hence, my memory uncluttered by a plethora of Bond girls, I was able to name the first one when the question came up. “Ursula Andress!” I cried, to the surprise of my teammates at Table Ten (“Ocean’s Ten,” we called ourselves). For an extra bonus point, we were asked to name the character. “Pussy Galore?” suggested one of my teammates. “No, no,” I said. “It was ‘Honey’ something.” I remembered that all the characters kept singing, “Under the mango tree/my honey and me …” I remembered remarking to Kris how strange it was that everyone on the island of Jamaica knew only one song.

We were denied the bonus point. We had to supply the full name: Honey Ryder. We appealed. With the penchant for petty intolerance that cost them the Empire, the Brits declined our appeal. Although we were never at any point in the evening in the lead in the trivia quiz, we were somewhat undone by the Honey Ryder injustice and began making dumb mistakes: Leslie Howard instead of Trevor Howard, things of that nature.

After we lost, I went to congratulate the braggarts and geeks at the winning table and to apologize for having thrown napkins at them throughout the evening. I examined their prizes: DVDs of “Torchwood” and the other puzzling entertainment offered on BBC America.

If someone could explain to me what’s going on on “Torchwood,” I would be most grateful. To me, it’s as mystifying as a James Bond movie.

Labels: BAFTA, Dr. No, Honey Ryder, pub quiz

posted by Elizabeth at 12:53 PM