I’ve gaped at car chases, grinned from ear to ear over sly one-liners and left theaters flushed with the gory glory of Daniel Craig’s stone-faced massacres. No arguments here: theatrical James Bond is the perfect feel-good character for a whole sect of males. Cars, women, subterfuge and wit — that’s not a hard pill to swallow.
I never gave much thought to the root of it all: Ian Fleming’s books (sorry, Guv’na). When I first devised to read Casino Royale, Fleming’s first Bond book of twelve, I imagined opened pages with scrolling images of seduced ladies, brutal gun battles and evil, slightly disfigured bad guys. This is not the case, however. What Fleming’s Bond taught me, and entertained me thoroughly with, is a whole different world with a whole different Bond, and one that more men should experience.
Read more after the break.
The old rule in writing is “show, don’t tell”. In film, we take for granted that we’re being shown James Bond for who he is, what he does; in prose, though, this description reaches an entirely different level. We get to hear 007’s thoughts, his cool, calculated manner — and we get a glimpse of his humanity and fallibility.
After the initial, knee-jerk discomfort (it does feel alien after watching 007 only through cinematic portrayal), seeing Bond’s thoughts along with Fleming’s clipped, British narration is both comfortable and enjoyable. The prose is beautiful, flowing smoothly and with a grim demeanor that mirrors the story’s leading man. Fleming is insightful and purposeful in his description of gambling, the elite rich and, especially, the world of the secret service agent. Given Fleming’s real-life history with the British Secret Service, this shouldn’t be that surprising.