Dr. No falls into his own cooling tank. Boiling water. A scream. A puff of steam.

The film moves like a bullet train through cane fields, coral beaches, and the sterile lair of a man with steel hands. Dr. No—Gert Fröbe’s voice, a scarred face, a Mandarin suit—wants to knock a rocket off course. He tells Bond: "The Americans are fools. The Russians are fools. But you, Mr. Bond—you could have been a scientist."

"No," he says. Then smiles. "Just me."

Enter Bond. Tuxedo. Dry martini. "Shaken, not stirred." He says it like a man ordering breakfast.

The world would never be the same.

The climax is a crawl through air ducts. Sweat on Connery’s upper lip. A nuclear reactor room. A handshake with death. "That's a Dom Perignon '55," Bond says of the champagne bottle he uses to kill a henchman. "It would be a pity to waste it."