Moonraker: a Technical Analysis of the 1979 James Bond Film. Louis Shalako.

The structure is typical for the era, shiny and mostly bullshit...

 

Louis Shalako

In the James Bond film Moonraker, in the opening scenes, a space shuttle is stolen off the back of a Boeing 747. 

You may remember the scene, where a couple of guys sneak out of the broom closet or the pantry or somewhere. They fire up the engines, and take off, with the blast destroying the plane. 

(Yeah, piss-poor security, eh. - ed).

The empty weight of the shuttle would be about 165,000 lbs. It was transported on the back of a 747. That part is real. It really did happen, sort of. There would be no payload, obviously, what is really interesting is that there would be no fuel either. That is because the engines were fueled from the massive central tank system, additional boost coming from the solid-fuel rockets strapped onto that. So the entire premise of the film is bogus from scene one. Further criticisms are sort of redundant, and yet I plan on doing it anyways...

(That's our Louis. - ed.)

I could mention that the aircraft crashes in northern Canada and Drax’s shuttle base is in South America, or at least somewhere with some really big fucking snakes.

You simply can’t get there from here. There is no reason for the onboard tank, which would be located behind the cargo bay and ahead of the engines, to have any fuel at all in such a scenario. 

It is true, that the shuttle was glide-tested, and landings were conducted in order to gain the knowledge necessary to fly and land the thing. That was one reason for the whole 747-rig, that and transport between assembly and launch pad. Landing gear might get a lot of assistance from gravity, but they do have to contend with aerodynamic forces, and you want them to fully deploy and to lock into position. This implies some sort of powered system. You want to see three green lights on your dashboard. Two greens and one red would be real bad news—

It’s not rocket science, ladies and gentlemen—

It's not rocket science, Mister Bond...

#snork

You don’t use reaction control in the atmosphere, not when you have rudder, ailerons, elevators, all of which could run on battery-powered electric servo-motors. You don’t use reaction control to run the pumps and compressors for the hydraulic landing gear system, for example. All you need are batteries, in fact otherwise powerless aircraft have been saved by deploying a wind-turbine into the slipstream in order to generate minimal electrical power. With electrical power, temperature is less of a consideration, you don’t want an air tank or a fluid, hydraulic system to freeze up just when you need it most. And if you want to trickle a little bit of heat to any such system, you still need a battery.

Drax's shuttles do have external tanks, and solid boosters, and their cargo bays are full of people. They did that much research, they checked that many facts. Once that central tank is dropped, minimal fuel is aboard the shuttle, that is for maneuvering and re-entry, otherwise you're kind of stuck up there. The big problem there, is that the blast from all engines popping off at once in an enclosed space, would surely destroy the shuttles, all of them, as they were built as lightly as possible…also, there is no way in hell Bond and Doctor Goodhead could ever outrun the blast, directed as it is down, in an enclosed space, with ducts and tubes and all of that. Even so, Bond and Doctor Goodhead seem to be blasting along in Drax's personal Shuttle Five all right, trying to shoot down the pods that are to dispense the bug-juice, thereby destroying the human race…right? Those lasers run on electrical power from one source or another...

Oh, James...

As you know, in the actual shuttle flights, the solid boosters dropped off first, the shuttle riding the tank up a little higher, but of course it's the bottom part of that equation that takes most of the energy—going from zero miles per hour, at the bottom of that gravity well. The force of gravity varies inversely to (or with), the square of the distance, as we recall from our elementary school exercises, ladies and gentlemen. The higher you get, the less the force of gravity upon your 'body', organic, celestial, or man-made machine. The force of gravity would be an accelerating (or decelerating) curve, the further you get away from Earth.

Bearing in mind Drax's space station has a 'radar jamming system', even if it worked, (and not just putting out a strong signal in the sky, over a large band of frequencies, which could hardly be missed), such a large object would be visible due to simple reflected sunlight. You can see the ISS, (International Space Station) on any clear night, (even when it's dark out), and you can even track it online so you know where and when to look. The only thing more predictable than an orbit, is a geosynchronous orbit, if I may submit. That's because it ain't actually going anywheres, it just sits there in one spot all the fucking time. It's not really clear what Drax's station is doing from the available information, probably nothing if you ask me...

The ISS is a lot smaller than Drax's space station. I won't worry you with the artificial gravity, although with that central area allegedly 'horizontal', and the station rotating in the vertical axis, there are so many technical problems with this film that it isn't even funny. It has been said the series became, over time, a parody of itself. As for the actual structure, this thing is hardly designed for stealth.

The best part of this film is when Bond comes in the front door of the glass works in Venice. That girl—yeah, that one right there, that one interests me. She makes a lot of other women look like boys...

As for an amphibious gondola, coming up out of the water and zooming off through the square by what is presumably St. Mark's Cathedral, that one is just plain ridiculous. Everyone likes ‘Q’, the scenes where they ride across the pampas to the theme from The Magnificent Seven are cute. Just cute. Fight scenes in a glass museum, tossing a guy out through an antique clock, well, they’re always fun and satisfying for the audience.

Everyone loves me...'Q'.

***

I took my girlfriend to this film when it first came out. It was a thing, these were popular films and the truth is, we had a good time. These films are, first and foremost, entertainment.

I’ve mentioned fight scenes on top of cable-cars in a previous blogpost.

Stealing a parachute in mid-fall is of course hopeless…boat chases and runaway aircraft appear in other Bond films, in fact they reprise themselves surprisingly often. There are hang-gliding scenes in this film and in Live and Let Die, then there is the gyrocopter in You Only Live Twice, the jet-pack scene in Goldfinger and the car-plane in The Man With the Golden Gun. The battle in space, forces conveniently colour-coded, reprises the underwater scene in Thunderball and the ninjas-dropping-from-above of You Only Live Twice.

Right?

There were reasons why this series sort of fell away for a while and in fact it was Timothy Dalton that sort of breathed new life into it. It was still bad, in many ways, but it was at least watchable. Timothy Dalton is not gay, which puts his performance in The Lion in Winter, (Peter O'Toole, Katherine Hepburn, Anthony Hopkins), into its proper perspective and all the more impressive because of that...

 

#technical_stuff

 

END

 

Images. Stolen from the internet.

Louis has books and stories available from Amazon.

See his works on Fine Art America.

Check out this story on the #superdough blog.

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

A Stranger In Paris, Pt. 8. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

 

Levain: we've caught a break.

 

 Louis Shalako

“All right, Gilles. It seems we might have caught a break.”

“Oh, really? Does that mean the rain’s going to let up?”

“Ah. No, not that. No, I mean a break in our case—the Saulnier case, or whatever the hell we’re calling it.”

“And?”

“Detective Tailler is on his way up. One of his boys knows something interesting, and it includes all three. This might be the connection we’re looking for.”

“I’ll bet its child brothels.” Hell, even LeBref didn’t laugh.

“Shut up, Hubert. All right, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while, anyways.” Gilles’ eyes strayed to the clock.

Tailler, after baptism by fire—pulled into the Unit by Maintenon, on what, looking back, must have been some kind of a whim. And then, after succeeding brilliantly, Emile Tailler had made sergeant. Then he made detective-sergeant, and then, all in the course of about two years, full detective.

A victim of his own success, as well as standardized manning practices, it was suddenly found that poor old Tailler didn’t have the seniority. He was now bottom man on the detective totem-pole, in a very prestigious unit, one rarely comprising more than five or six people. Sure enough, he’d been bumped. In what was a sad irony, a very good and promising young man had been replaced by a dud. A man who just wanted to put it in his memoirs, and a man not particularly suited, either by training or by temperament, for the sort of painstaking, plodding and yet at times very intuitive homicide game…a man, who was already gone by this point in time.

Amicably, and by mutual agreement, but gone nevertheless.

Poor old Tailler, only having so many options, and not prepared to give up the grade or the pay-increase under almost any conceivable circumstances, had gone to another branch.

Intelligence. Their boys had brought down some big players, over the last couple of years, and it was all due to the long-term gathering of criminal intelligence.

Word was, it was becoming much more political over there, and Gilles wondered what Tailler thought of that.

There was a brief flurry of activity in the doorway. LeBref was just going out and Margot and another tall figure were just coming in…

“Oops. Excuse me, young lady—” There was a gape and a step to one side. “Tailler! How’s the weather up there?”

“Er, just fine, thanks.” Emile stood there beaming in through the doorway, seeking out his old boss-man.

With a quick glance and a grin over his shoulder in Maintenon’s direction, LeBref gave the big fellow a pat on the bicep and then continued on his way.

***

Tailler.

“Honestly, Gilles. There are days when I wonder what it would be, to quit. Just quit, you know.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know how you do it—how in the hell do we just go on and on and on. And it gets its hooks into you—I know. I know. I simply cannot conceive of myself, doing any other thing. I don’t know anything else. Hell, I got into the police, I suppose, in order to avoid doing all of those other things…all of those other boring things. My brother is a baker, you know? That’s all he does all day, is to make bread. And cakes, and cookies, and tarts, and after a while it’s all the same.”

“Ah. The itch, is what it’s called.”

Tailler nodded.

“Yeah, it’s an itch all right. I’ve got it real bad, lately.”

“So. To our story—”

“Yes. Sorry about all that. It’s just that I miss you guys.” Tailler cleared his throat and opened up the old notebook. “Okay, our source, who must remain confidential as he’s still in there, says our three boys, Saulnier, Cariveau and the other one—Jules, ah, Lalonde, are all socialists.”

“Ah. A connection—a real connection, at last.”

“Here’s the thing, Gilles. And this is where we come in. The fascists hate the communists. The communists hate the fascists, and both sides hate the socialists, who at least represent some moderation. That’s especially true of the Catholic-Socialist-Democratic Party, and some other smaller ones. The Democratic-Catholic-Socialists too, and it’s hard to tell them apart sometimes. Not all of them of course, ah, but, being sort of middle-class, they have a much better chance at forming a government, if not the next one, or the one after that, but some chance. And of course everyone hates the anarchists, the nihilists, and some of the other real extremists.” They were following the examples of the original populists, Marx, and Lenin, and Mussolini, and then Hitler. “There are those who, after all this time, would bring back the imperium.”

An old-fashioned term, but there it was.

Franco in Spain—they were just grasping at power, some of them prepared to pay a very high price in terms of other people’s lives in order to do it.

It inspired all sorts of reactions, some for and some against—some copycats and some that might even have a shred of merit. At least some of them were original, as he put it—but for the most part, the average hommes were harmless political cranks.

Hommes-de-terre, as he put it: political potato people, unsophisticated but with all sorts of ideas.

“I mean, if they had any brains, some of them could become dangerous.”

All they were looking for was a leader. There was some sense of political desperation in the air…more than enough of that going around lately.

“Hmn.”

“We infiltrate as best we can, we have informants, paid and unpaid. We read their news-letters, and our people attend their meetings in some cases. Oh, and some of them seem to attract the attention of certain notable foreign nationals, who have their own agenda. One more reason to keep our eyes on them. Some of the funding is pretty mysterious. Right? But there are also lone wolves and splinter groups—that little wave of bombings last year was one of those. That was a power struggle between two factions in a small but fanatic group. All about two guys with big egos. And an argument about wording, in some bullshit manifesto. It just got out of hand. You’ll be seeing that in the papers, very, very soon now. Yeah, and the rest of the group, a few members anyways, seem to have disappeared back into the woodwork. We’ve also seen an uptick, and a big one, in street brawls, beatings of selected individuals, usually not the higher-ups, and this is done by both major sides, so to speak—fascist and fellow-travellers on the one side, and the communists and socialists on the other side. It’s tactics of intimidation, provocation, trying to disrupt each other’s parades and disrupting their meetings.”

It was all the wrong people reading all the right books, according to him. Some of the nicer people, perhaps sympathetic to one cause or another, were afraid to join anything, after a while.

No one wanted to be beaten up…just for having an opinion.

“And these three young men were socialists. How do we know that?”

“Membership lists. Magazine subscriptions. Attendance and participation at events and meetings…” He sighed. “Fuck! Letters to the editor. It’s not like they were doing anything criminal, Gilles, but they seem to have been enamoured, of the message or something. It’s possible they even believed in it.”

There were questions of ambition, opportunism, trying to pick the winning side, so to speak.

Sucked in by a charismatic figure. An uncle, a brother, a friend. A girl—not everyone hanging around was a believer, as he put it.

He coughed, almost apologetically. There was a bug in his throat—something going around these days.

“I see.”

“Yes. I suppose the real test would be another killing—” And whether or not the next victim was a socialist.

And for that, they would have to wait.

Still, it brought up fresh questions. None of the ladies had mentioned anything of the sort, for example.

Or did this fall under ‘social life’, that was one good question.

As for the women, he doubted if they were political at all…at most, an attitude of polite disapproval of all such things as power, and politics, and those vulgar little politicians. Strutting about like peacocks, half bombast and half self-delusion. The only thing worse, to a certain type, a certain type of woman, would be a woman politician—that was neither here nor there.

“Tailler?”

“Yes, Boss?” It had just slipped out, and he grinned.

It really was like old times.

“What do you think of our little mess?”

Tailler pursed his lips and thought. His eyes cleared.

“This is too subtle. In some ways.”

“Not organized crime, in other words.”

“I would say not.” They were never shy about sending a message.

He sought the words.

“This is not about inheritance, or greed—not so far anyways. It doesn’t seem to be about stealing the best friend’s wife…”

Maintenon nodded. It made sense so far.

“This is a sick little plot, Gilles. You have to admit, it’s pretty complex, so far. And this, this is only a part of it—” Because there had to be some kind of a point, in his words.

There was Margot, quietly watching Maintenon’s face, and listening in spite of her own workload.

So, this was Tailler—

There was a long silence. Tailler shook his head. This was Maintenon’s case, all he knew was what he’d heard, or read. It was like the Hippocratic Oath. First, do no harm.

“So. What is the name of this organization. Where would I find them.”

***

LeBref was at the edge of Maintenon’s desk.

“Yes?”

“We got another strange one, Gilles.”

“Oh, really.”

"Ve've got anodder strange von, Gilles."

 

“Yes. It seems a ticket clerk at the Gare de Lyon was reading the papers. He is telling us that he saw a familiar face. According to him, Monsieur Jean Cariveau bought a ticket, the last train, at the last minute, paid cash…” Several nights ago…

“Where to?”

“Marseille.”

Merde.

“You’re right. That is strange. So, how—”

“It seems our clerk is a member of the club.”

“You mean, another socialist?”

“Yep. A card-carrying, dues-paying member in good standing. And he says he knows Cariveau well enough. Well enough to recognize him, anyways. Well-dressed, one small case and a brief-case. A long, dark coat. Grey slacks, red bowtie, sort of unusual, and brown shoes. Oh. A dark fedora hat.” He sighed. “And here’s the thing, Gilles. Once that ticket was punched, they’ve got their money. He could have gotten off at any other stop. Just drop the ticket stub on the floor somewhere. It’s not like anyone would ever care.”

Coaches were swept out at three and four a.m., and readied for service on the morning runs.

Police were never going to find anything, not by this time.

“All right. Let me have the report. And of course we’re absolutely strapped for manpower.” He caught Margot’s eye coincidentally. “Woman-power too.”

With an appreciative grin, phone cradled between neck and shoulder, she listened intently, making small notes as she went along…

Another busy day at the office. She had her own case-load.

“I’m sorry, Gilles. I’m off to court—anyhow, I thought you might as well know.”

“Thank you. And good luck.” Judging by the newspapers, they were going to need it, otherwise the killer Bernardi might just walk.

END

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

 

Louis has books and stories on Smashwords. Many of them are free.

See his art on ArtPal.

Images. Stolen from the internet.

 

Thank you for reading.