Forget James Bond: Pierce Brosnan Is A Nordic Workwear God

Will Ferrell, accomplished comedian that he is, isn't always going to get it right. The SNL grad has been on the beat since 1998's A Night At The Roxbury, churning out box office rainmakers of good and middling quality over the years. But that's no excuse to get it oh-so-badly-wrong, to confuse and befog and alienate an audience that have already had their viewing thresholds carpet bombed by the ongoing lockdown. Which, sadly, is what Netflix's Eurovision: The Story Of Fire Saga does, slowly beating a captive audience to tears with a blunt instrument of lazy gags, jarring product placement and dick jokes. This is what it's come to. Oh, that, and the talking, ablaze corpse of Demi Lovato, the Europop powerhouse that she isn't.

That's the point, a Eurovision expert cries. The continental summit of all that is naff and pyrotechnical is supposed to be silly and cheesy and absurd! All of which is true. However, by that very token, and as a result of its lost-in-translation bizarro, Eurovision has charm – plenty of it – that's free from the shackles of American stars and American directors that haven't grown up with Terry Wogan commentating on a Spanish pensioner doing the flamenco to the Tetris soundtrack. Put it in hands across the pond, and Hollywood has seemingly sapped the humour from Eurovision's hysteria. Ferrell and co just don't get it, as evidenced by the obvious cash injection from Edinburgh's tourism board with its postcard shots of Arthur's Seat and, erm, The Cambridge Satchel Company. The UK would never, ever win Eurovision, so let's get the basics right first.

Netflix

But Pierce Brosnan does. As sure as the world turns, the grand marquis of the silver foxes stands out, and in the tragedy of Fire Saga, is its saving grace. For while his Icelandic accent sounds like a drunken northerner shouting down a drainpipe, and while his toxic father-son relationship with Ferrell is as paper thin as Rachel McAdams' swan song, the former Bond cements himself as a style god proper – one of perfect, rain-flecked, dour-skied workwear.

This is no American workwear that has toiled its way into Midtown ad agencies and Shoreditch offices with cooooooooool bean bags and 0.2 per cent beer on tap. This is workwear that has actual work to do: functional, hard-wearing and easy-to-spot if your trawler gets lost in a glacier. Turquoise and yellow make a harmonious distress beacon, too. And though the likes of native outfits Wood Wood and Norse Projects are handsome and wearable and popular, they're in the ivory tower of head office. Pierce, meanwhile, is out here catching wild salmon with his bare hands and eating rocks for lunch.

Off-duty, the GoldenEye luminary is just as sharp in thick cable knits and Fair Isle sweaters, even going as far to tie it altogether with a neckerchief. This isn't for showing off, though; to knot up before a walk to crystal yoga. Men like Fire Saga's Pierce need it because they've brows to mop, exhaust pipes to sort out. It's function at its finest, and by that very token, function at its best-dressed too.

So as you roll your eyes at another shot of McAdams and Ferrell acting all kooky and Nordic and so random (which is actually quite offensive, thinking about it), train them to hone in on the film's high note. It doesn't save a sinking ship. Nor is it the film Mr Brosnan so deserves at this stage in his career. But it is very, very well-dressed.