Bond, by the book

With the release of "Casino Royale," I read Ian Fleming's classic Bond novels again and discovered a talented spy who was "just like us" and a writer devoted to pleasure.

By Allen Barra

Read more: Books, England, Allen Barra, James Bond, Books Features

Nov. 25, 2006 | "Casino Royale," the first James Bond novel, was published in 1953 and has been recently reissued by Penguin to coincide with the release of the movie version -- practically the first Bond movie since the early Sean Connery films to stick to the original, Ian Fleming-penned story. This event highlights a question that English writer Simon Winder raised in his recent book, "The Man Who Saved Britain: A Personal Journey Into the Disturbing World of James Bond": "Would the Bond books be read today without the films?"

The answer to Winder's question is yes -- and in fact they have been, and are. Fleming's Bond novels, all reissued by Penguin, have achieved a mass cult status quite apart from the movies. If anything, the awfulness of most of the Bond films of the past 30-odd years probably cost Fleming some readers; who would care to seek out the literary genesis for "The Spy Who Loved Me" or "Moonraker" or "For Your Eyes Only"? Many readers of the previous generation who came across Bond titles on paperback racks probably thought they were mere "novelizations" of the films.

Half a century ago, though, Fleming had built up the most extraordinary collection of groupies of any genre novelist since Raymond Chandler, including Anthony Burgess, Kingsley Amis, Cyril Connolly (whose article "Bond Strikes Camp" for London Magazine in 1963 is still the best Fleming parody), Elizabeth Bowen and Chandler himself, who, when asked to supply a logrolling cover blurb for the second Bond novel, "Live and Let Die," asked Fleming, "If this is any good to you, would you like me to have it engraved on a gold slab?"

Even Chandler never got a plug from an American president. Yet, nearly 45 years ago, when asked why the bedroom lights in the White House were on so late, JFK (like James Bond, a naval commander in World War II) replied that he was "up late reading 'From Russia With Love.'" Fleming returned the compliment in 1965 when he had Bond take a copy of "Profiles in Courage" on an assignment.

The reasons why Fleming became such a cult favorite aren't easily discerned by those who want obvious "literary" quality in their thrillers. He couldn't begin to write dialogue as pungent as that of his friend and early supporter, Raymond Chandler, the darling of Brit critics; as Kingsley Amis wrote in his slim 1965 book, "The James Bond Dossier," Fleming's "dialogue is serviceable and nothing more." (Then again, Fleming had many more diverse characters to write dialogue for than did Chandler.) He doesn't begin to convey a sense of mise-en-scène as well as, say, Dashiell Hammett. (But then Fleming had far more diverse scenes to set than did Hammett.) In fact, as I went back to the Bond books -- for the first time since the age of 15, when I sneaked my father's Signet paperbacks (the ones JFK must have read) into my room -- I found myself hard-pressed to say exactly why they were worth rereading. In the end, though, I was compelled to go through them all, which is more than I can say about not only the trashy thrillers of Robert Ludlum but also the classy ones of John le Carré. Fleming's genius, if it's proper to apply the word to a writer of genre fiction, was to create a world of espionage more grotesque and dangerous than the actual one while maintaining close enough ties to reality to make it all seem credible. To my surprise, he rewarded not only careful reading but rereading.

I did not, as I expected, think of Bond as Sean Connery. The Bond of the books was physically smaller than Connery by about 2 inches and 20 pounds, and not quite so "cruelly handsome" (as many early reviewers described Connery). I had forgotten that James Bond wasn't really a spy at all but a cross between the commandos Fleming had known during World War II and a highly trained assassin -- obviously, or else why would he be licensed by his government to kill? The literary Bond chafed at the paperwork he was obliged to do plenty of, and unlike his movie counterpart -- whose budget for sports cars, rocket-powered backpacks and speedboats, to say nothing of tuxedos, seemed to exceed the entire GNP of Great Britain -- was always mildly resentful about his lack of funding. In "You Only Live Twice," he apologizes to Tiger Tanaka, the head of the Japanese secret service, for his meager expense account: "Under ten million pounds a year doesn't go far when there is the whole world to cover." In "From Russia With Love," he ruefully compares his own arsenal with that of his Soviet rivals. "If only," he laments, "his cigarette had been a trick one -- magnesium flare, or something he could throw in the man's face! If only his Service went in for those explosive toys!" And in "Thunderball" he envies the "CIA the excellence of their equipment, and he had no false pride about borrowing from them."

Readers often come to, well, bond with Bond precisely because of his ordinariness. Unlike the Bond of the movies, the Bond on the pages doesn't seem radically different from most of us. With the right background and training -- and, of course, a willingness to kill in the line of duty -- it's easy to feel we could be the hero of those adventures. Chandler's Philip Marlowe is somebody you'd like to have a drink with. Bond doesn't interest us in that way; he's more like someone you'd want to be if you had another life. Which seems to be precisely why Fleming wrote the books, to create a fantastic yet believable alternative existence. (And also, as Simon Winder points out, at the urging of and to impress his wife, Ann.)

His KGB file calls Bond an "all-round athlete; expert pistol shot, boxer, knife-thrower," and we find out he is a capable driver, swimmer and pilot. Still, he is far from the superman of the films, and in many cases he is overmatched by his foes; the fight between Connery's Bond and Robert Shaw's psychopath Irish killer, Red Grant, on the train in "From Russia With Love" is one of the classic brawls of movie history, but the Bond of the book "had no illusions about being able to beat this terrific man in unarmed combat. The first violent stab of his knife had to be decisive." Bond's triumphs are invariably due to his resourcefulness, wits and superior training rather than to sheer physical ability. As Sir Isaac Newton said of himself, "My powers are ordinary. Only my application brings me success." Something similar might be said of Fleming's Bond.

Apparently, not even Bond's looks are extraordinary -- one reason, perhaps, why Daniel Craig, with his Steve McQueen-type weathered features, seems to fit well in the role. We're not sure exactly what Bond looks like, and it isn't clear Fleming himself knew. Fleming was fairly certain that Bond did not look like Sean Connery, of whom he exclaimed upon first seeing, "He looks like a lorry driver"! (However, when "Dr. No" was released, Fleming, as everyone else, was won over.) The writer was fond of saying that he thought Bond resembled "a young Hoagy Carmichael," who, we forget today, was as well known as a character actor in films such as "To Have and Have Not" as he was as a songwriter. (Some people saw a resemblance to Hoagy Carmichael in the young Ian Fleming.)

In the books, Fleming offers us only glimpses of his creation, usually through the eyes of others -- allies, foes and the women in his life -- and trying to form a picture from them is rather like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. Except for a description ingeniously inserted in a KGB file and read to us by an agent in "From Russia With Love," and a London Times obit at the end of "You Only Live Twice," we might never know that Bond was dark-haired, had a 3-inch scar down the right side of his face and was educated at Eton (expelled "for some alleged trouble with one of the boys' maids"). For that matter, we might have missed the fact that James Bond, the greatest fictional hero of postwar England, had not a drop of English blood in him. Like his creator, Fleming, and like Connery, Bond was a Scotsman. (The Times obit says his mother was Swiss, but Fleming revealed in an interview that in a later book, never written, she would be discovered to also be a Scot.)

Next page: Was Bond a sadistic killer and consummate snob? Or a nice, regular Joe?