This review contains minor spoilers.
Twenty twelve was a ruddy good year for us Brits. Her Maj the Queen celebrated 60 years of wrist-waving, we hosted a big Sports Day, and we were treated to arguably the best James Bond film ever in Skyfall. Sam Mendes’ first foray into the iconic franchise was brave enough to combine classic Bond camp (Bassey-esque song! Javier Bardem’s hair! Komodo dragons!) with a Freudian emotional core. Turning Judi Dench’s M into a Tennyson-quoting Bond girl/surrogate mother was a stroke of plotting genius which, along with the largely London-set action, created a Bond film that was surprisingly introspective, fitting into cool Britannia sentiment as snugly as an MI5 agent in an Aston Martin.