As a general rule one wants a book title to be pithy and to the point, the front wrapper to be clean and clear. In this the above book fails. In fact, the cover is, well, covered in writing. However, it needs every word, except of course the bit about me being the reader. That’s just me being facetious, but I think you gathered that already.
It does need all of the title though. If you have seen below, you will have noticed that I recently reread Ian Fleming, just to rediscover and explore how much the intervening years have changed both Bond and I. With that fresh in the mind I read Sebastian Faulks’ Bond. This is of course not the first time someone other than Fleming has written a Bond book. Some may recall the John Gardner Bond books. (Clearly Bond is a character too large to be contained by his mere creator.) Nor is the idea of another author continuing a franchise all that novel (apologies for the gratuitous pun). Tom Clancy is now written by any old Dick or Harry, and Eric van Lustbader writes Robert Ludlum. And we are still not all that sure who wrote those plays attributed to Mr. Shakespeare. But we do know who Sebastian Faulks is. Prior to his Bond, he published eleven books, including Birdsong and Charlotte Gray. I have to admit to having ambivalent feelings about him as an author. Reading Birdsong I remember being engrossed by the narrative, but close to bored by some pages, feeling that much was gratuitous and not central to the plot. However, I forgave all for the pages that were brilliant. There is a description of the battle of the Somme that simply shredded my heart. It is breathtakingly perfect, writing that leaves one stunned, simply silenced and shocked by the intensity of the experience. Not many authors can do that, and for that all is forgiven. The house on Green Dolphin Street almost undid me again. I did not like it and found it anemic, lacking in substance and not worth the effort expended in having to turn the pages. Charlotte Gray saved the day, and made me continue to read what he writes.
There must be many ways of tackling the task of writing in another’s shoes, as it were, following keystrokes, copying ways of thinking, but Faulks has chosen well. He has taken up the story early where Fleming left off. Indeed, if you read Casino Royal and Devil May Care in short succession, you would not be discomfited by any jarring in the plot, characterization or history. Faulks’ Bond is Fleming’s Bond, down to the unruly lock of black hair plastered on his forehead. His world is that of the Cold War, where the Russians are dastardly, and the villains hell-bent on world domination. Women are gorgeous and alluring, hiding reserves of strength and guile under their tastefully brief frocks, and there is much smoking, heavy drinking, a spot of sex and more than a little lustful indulging of gastronomic desires. In this book the villain sports a hideous defect (a monkey hand – complete with simian unopposable thumb and hair) hidden by a white glove. Said defect has twisted his mind, in typically twisted plot, to a virulent hatred of all things British. He is brilliant, of course, and evil and wealthy, with his own legion of thugs to do his bidding. Chief among these a sociopathic Vietnamese enforcer who has had his conscience surgically removed (no, really). Exotic locations include Rome, Paris and Persia. There is a simply wizard piece of military kit called an Ekranoplan (a large boaty/planey/hovercrafty thingummy), the female lead is called Scarlett, Moneypenny is breathless with excitement at Bond’s double entendres, M is dour, gruff and hides his avuncular pleasure with Bond’s adventures less than perfectly, and Bond still laments the fact that he has been forced to ditch his small Beretta for a Walther PPK.
All vintage Bond, much like the wines quaffed.
All in all, most satisfying.
It does need all of the title though. If you have seen below, you will have noticed that I recently reread Ian Fleming, just to rediscover and explore how much the intervening years have changed both Bond and I. With that fresh in the mind I read Sebastian Faulks’ Bond. This is of course not the first time someone other than Fleming has written a Bond book. Some may recall the John Gardner Bond books. (Clearly Bond is a character too large to be contained by his mere creator.) Nor is the idea of another author continuing a franchise all that novel (apologies for the gratuitous pun). Tom Clancy is now written by any old Dick or Harry, and Eric van Lustbader writes Robert Ludlum. And we are still not all that sure who wrote those plays attributed to Mr. Shakespeare. But we do know who Sebastian Faulks is. Prior to his Bond, he published eleven books, including Birdsong and Charlotte Gray. I have to admit to having ambivalent feelings about him as an author. Reading Birdsong I remember being engrossed by the narrative, but close to bored by some pages, feeling that much was gratuitous and not central to the plot. However, I forgave all for the pages that were brilliant. There is a description of the battle of the Somme that simply shredded my heart. It is breathtakingly perfect, writing that leaves one stunned, simply silenced and shocked by the intensity of the experience. Not many authors can do that, and for that all is forgiven. The house on Green Dolphin Street almost undid me again. I did not like it and found it anemic, lacking in substance and not worth the effort expended in having to turn the pages. Charlotte Gray saved the day, and made me continue to read what he writes.
There must be many ways of tackling the task of writing in another’s shoes, as it were, following keystrokes, copying ways of thinking, but Faulks has chosen well. He has taken up the story early where Fleming left off. Indeed, if you read Casino Royal and Devil May Care in short succession, you would not be discomfited by any jarring in the plot, characterization or history. Faulks’ Bond is Fleming’s Bond, down to the unruly lock of black hair plastered on his forehead. His world is that of the Cold War, where the Russians are dastardly, and the villains hell-bent on world domination. Women are gorgeous and alluring, hiding reserves of strength and guile under their tastefully brief frocks, and there is much smoking, heavy drinking, a spot of sex and more than a little lustful indulging of gastronomic desires. In this book the villain sports a hideous defect (a monkey hand – complete with simian unopposable thumb and hair) hidden by a white glove. Said defect has twisted his mind, in typically twisted plot, to a virulent hatred of all things British. He is brilliant, of course, and evil and wealthy, with his own legion of thugs to do his bidding. Chief among these a sociopathic Vietnamese enforcer who has had his conscience surgically removed (no, really). Exotic locations include Rome, Paris and Persia. There is a simply wizard piece of military kit called an Ekranoplan (a large boaty/planey/hovercrafty thingummy), the female lead is called Scarlett, Moneypenny is breathless with excitement at Bond’s double entendres, M is dour, gruff and hides his avuncular pleasure with Bond’s adventures less than perfectly, and Bond still laments the fact that he has been forced to ditch his small Beretta for a Walther PPK.
All vintage Bond, much like the wines quaffed.
All in all, most satisfying.
