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Comments
Is it in English?
I've heard it's better in Norwegian.
Probably for the best, old chap.
For English readers?
True but yet it feels occasionally pretty original. I liked the setting quite a lot and did not mind the female agent at all.
Having raced through Lee Child's Never Go Back - a fairly by-the-numbers thriller, it's time to get back to Wessex. This, Hardy's most delightful and happy book (the rest would be tinged with some kind of tragedy), is a look at a group of rustics and the courtship of Dick Dewy and newly appointed school mistress Fancy Day. Just under half-way and 'tis a delight to read.
BOOK 8
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
by Ian Fleming
Critics are often quick to point out that the “Eon Bond” and the “Fleming Bond” really aren’t two of a kind, and many a Bond fan agrees with that statement. In terms of their basic ingredients they certainly match, but the sensational cocktails Fleming poured out of his typewriter were often diluted and then profusely sweetened up with spoonfuls of sugar for the cinematic medium. On the bright sight, the films expand Fleming’s legacy rather than merely replicate it. They are mostly set in different times and provide, at a mere technical level, certain possibilities which a book could never offer. A natural consequence, of course, is that not every “Bond fan” loves both the films and the books; in fact, it’s probably fair to assume that only a minority of the cinematic Bond’s fan base has ever even read a single one of Fleming’s books. Yet the idea of lifting Bond from the pages of his novels in favour of a live-action treatment seems to have been fermenting in the author’s own mind for some time. Before the film production of DR. NO had even kicked into gears, he had already come up with a few plots for a television series. But that project was eventually dropped and so Fleming, never one to let anything go to waste, decided to re-adapt his material for the book medium. He did not, however, forcibly conflate his stories for the sake of writing another “long novel”, but instead put together a short story collection under the umbrella title of FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. This will be my book for tonight. I select John Barry’s A VIEW TO A KILL, Bill Conti’s FOR YOUR EYES ONLY and David Arnold’s QUANTUM OF SOLACE, and prepare myself for a different Bond experience.
A courier from SHAPE (Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe) is killed by another biker while on his way from one base to another in France, carrying with him secret documents of notable interest to the Soviet opposition. Mary Ann Russell, an agent of seemly appearance, is sent by M to collect Bond, who at the time is already in Paris, enjoying the copious delectations of the French capital. We first find Bond reflecting on many things, including losing his virginity in Paris at the age of sixteen, possibly to a prostitute. (He had lost his wallet and notebook in the act.) Perhaps Paris could have evoked more memories of interest to us, readers, were it not for Miss Russell shaking Bond from his current pensive condition. She supplants his leisure time with a mission of pellucid simplicity, but before Bond dives into that, he sedulously demonstrates to Miss Russell his renowned zeal for the most urbane and delightful distractions a bon vivant of his class pursues. Fleming spends several pages ostentatiously sampling various ways in which Bond relieves his ennui between missions. One cannot shake loose the impression that these pages were added for the book since it would seem counterintuitive to bring a television episode to a virtual stand-still for expensive musings. I am, however, impressed by how effortlessly Fleming can catalogue all the places of interest one simply must see or visit when in Paris, mostly from sheer memory no doubt. Even when writing a short story, Fleming appears untroubled by pacing issues. Secret agent or travel agent, James Bond fulfils two missions: to first show us beautiful landscapes and places and then clean them out for us.
The next morning, Bond will pose as a SHAPE dispatch rider and smoke out the assassins that way, much to the chagrin of a worried Mary Ann who comments, in reference to the secret service, that “you’re just a lot of children playing at Red Indians”. Her best efforts to keep Bond from being a sitting duck do not avail and dismissing her angry eruption as quite unnecessary, Bond tells her to “be a good girl and do as you’re told.” Trying to take Bond’s mind off an idea once it’s firmly fixed, is akin to impeding a bull’s attack in the arena. In the final few pages of the story, Bond callously kills the biked assassin and proceeds to force this assassin’s compatriots out of their rudimentary base. He must, however, sustain unexpected counter-attacks and while fuzzily struggling to stay alive, he’s rescued by Mary Ann. Bond now owes his life to the very girl he had chastened only hours before. The mission’s success not quite another feather in his own cap, Bond straightens things out with the girl by, presumably, lending her a hand in facilitating certain intimate pleasures.
Like an earnest travelogue, FROM A VIEW TO A KILL spends a good third of its time contemplating the wonderful life one can have in Paris. Anyone seeking base thrills in this forty page story will have to labour through Fleming’s elegant and detailed daydreams. While it’s fairly common in Fleming’s other books to accommodate the author some room for such colourful descriptions, I can’t help but feel a bit overstuffed by them in a story that will be over fast. It’s just a minor complaint though. There’s a pretty solid albeit modest micro-adventure to be had here, showing a more unrestrained side of Bond. In a few brief sentences, the girl states her motherly concerns, which Bond chooses to counter by patronising her. It’s hard to overlook the surprising near-death punishment Fleming exacts on Bond for being such an arrogant man. “Cavalier” is how Judy Dench’s M would describe Bond’s attitude in GOLDENEYE. I’m a little jolted by how easily Fleming can jump from practically objectifying good-looking girls to granting them almost prophetic powers. He had done something slightly similar in FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE, flirting with vindicating housekeeper May’s words of caution, which Bond had scoffed at too. And yet, because she saves his life, he will reward Mary Ann Russell by stimulating her lady-parts. That’s a full bag of mixed messages, Ian. Either way, I like this story and I think it’s a shame none of it was used in the 1985 film by (partly) the same name. At least for the pre-credits sequence, this story might have been more sensational than the fairly empty mini-adventure they would ultimately concoct.
The Havelocks, two kindly old British people, are brutally killed in their Jamaican estate after refusing to sell their place to a certain Herr von Hammerstein. This former Gestapo agent wants to buy up property in the Caribbean in trying to cope with the adversities of Castro’s quick rise to power. Apoplectic over the news of his friends’ death, M, with a flagrant disregard for secret service protocol, invites Bond and his deft craftsmanship to a clandestine mission of revenge. With a predilection for bringing murderers of harmless British citizens to justice, Bond unequivocally advocates this initiative and travels to Canada where von Hammerstein has established his domicile in a pristine forest. With sturdy resolve and a zest not at all incongruous with his usual moral inclinations, Bond buckles up for a clean hit on von Hammerstein. But when approaching the villain’s house, the Havelocks’ progeny, Judy, blocks his path. Armed with bow and arrows, she intends to assuage her grief by taking von Hammerstein’s life herself, not unlike how Tilly Masterton had sought revenge for her sister’s death in GOLDFINGER.
This time Bond will grant the vengeful girl her wish and agrees to a joint venture. (He would be a little more moralistic in the film adaptation, downright admonishing the girl for contemplating murder, something many a fan is willing to call hypocritical coming from 007.) They patiently await the moment when von Hammerstein and his henchmen are scattered in a nearby lake where they ablute around the same time every day, and then they attack. Without apprehension, Judy does what she came for. No regrets are dealt with afterwards, no wailings attest to any emotional flaccidity. Rather, after their exciting triumph, one can imagine that some serious “doing it” will ensue, especially since Fleming never dispenses with the trivialities of pointing out how ethereally beautiful a girl like Judy is. Giving succour to those in need, Fleming rarely surrounds Bond with any females of dreadfully insipid qualities. Some obdurately harsh critics have sought in this a rather tenuous argument to approach Fleming’s writings with calumny, often accompanied by defamatory conjectures regarding his intentions. They attack his alleged sadism and endorsement of taking other people’s lives and celebrating the act with sex afterwards. M and Bond, and of her own accord also Judy Havelock, conspire against von Hammerstein--how dare they!--and despite his obvious viciousness, one almost feels sorry for the hunter that has now become the hunted. Fleming, however, appears to be well aware of this issue and Bond must, therefore, remind himself often enough that he has ample reason to be here and to do what he will and that he’s doing it entirely of his own volition. But when it’s done, all is well and some lovemaking (most likely) awaits.
Small details of this story were preserved for its 1981 film adaptation, though the finer essence of FOR YOUR EYES ONLY got lost in transcription I feel. Though Melina, Judy’s cinematic alter ego, gets her revenge very soon and in more or less the same way, she’s rapidly tossed aside as an unforeseen burden whose car Bond will initially find more useful than the girl herself. In this story, however, revenge is what it’s all about. Judy will get hers, and M will get his through Bond. It’s a dirty mission this, and Bond knows it. He has no personal beef with these people, nor do they pose a threat of the magnitude that MI6 is used to handle. The police should take care of it, instead of her Majesty’s secret service. Hence the dossier’s name, “For Your Eyes Only”; Bond really is operating off the official secret service radar. I’m not sure I’m convinced by Bond’s sudden moral objections. He has killed before and has rarely found it tremendously disconcerting. He had gotten a little sick after the fight in the gipsy camp in FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE, but then he hadn’t come prepared for such an attack at all. He’s supposed to be a professional, who can follow orders dispassionately. It’s clear that von Hammerstein is a cold villain. As a WWII veteran, Bond oughtn’t to have any compunctions about taking a former Gestapo agent’s life, let alone one who hasn’t lost the taste of killing innocent people yet. So was Fleming trying to placate his critics or was he, himself, a little appalled by the ruthlessness of the mission too? I’m not sure, but the fact remains that I struggle with the notion that Bond may have had qualms about this mission, a notion which Fleming rather inconsistently maintains anyway. All in all, I like this story, but I find its tone somewhat uneven, and I wish this short story had been even shorter to keep its pulse a lot higher.
Bond’s attending a dreary party in Nassau with shallow men and vapid women, when his host invites him to his sofa, an unusual “event” in a Fleming story right from the start. Following Bond’s somewhat theatrical remarks about marriage, the Governor, who proves quite an adept storyteller, gives a very descriptive account of a romance gone very much awry. A former civil servant, Phillip, and an air hostess, Rhonda, had met on a commercial flight and started dating shortly thereafter and with fire. They got married and settled in Bermuda and for a while, all was good. But the champagne lost its effervescence soon enough. Struck by boredom, Rhonda started exploring local entertainments and found her attractiveness a suitable instrument to catch the attention of other men. She quickly lowered herself to the unglamorous position of matrass every affluent man had crawled on at least once. She belittled her husband’s efforts in trying to be the best man he could be and eventually rendered him totally obsequious. Her indurate nature proved impervious and dour; Philip had nothing left but resort to self-deprecation, and Rhonda vegetated eagerly on that. Exactly how deleterious her caustic attitude would soon turn out to be, she could not have guessed at the time.
After recovering from a nervous breakdown, Phillip arranged for him and Rhonda to live separately in the house: she would use one half, he the other. They would make a few public appearances as a couple so as not to precipitate a scandal. He eventually returned to England all by himself and left her a few things. But those “things”, as Rhonda would soon find out, came with serious debts. Thus began a series of severe blows for the girl, and for a while, the reader may find, to his satisfaction, a secret revenge fantasy played out in this story. But as more tragedies of ever-increasing magnitude would befall Rhonda in quick succession--Fleming really gives the poor girl hell--one begins to wonder if, after a while, she hadn’t suffered more than enough already. An even more pertinent question is whether it even made Phillip feel better to force his former love in such a feverish state of despair. According to the governor, he never fully recovered, whereas Rhonda ultimately married a wealthy man and reconnected with civilisation. And as for the twist of the story: the loud couple Bond had been sitting next to at the dinner table had been Rhonda and this new husband of hers.
I was certainly surprised the first time I read this unusual story, and yet I instantly liked it. Fleming makes the point that when that ‘quantum of solace’ is no longer there, when one person doesn’t care anymore if the other one is alive or dead, the relationship is unsalvageable. We all dream of infallible love, but love can be a slippery liar. Very often, it has a transient nature and very often it takes away more than it gives. It’s possible for people to learn from past mistakes, to avoid them in the future and to keep their expectations realistic rather than incurably naïve, but it usually takes one or two failed relationships to understand the rules of the game. Fleming writes about this subject with crystallised thoughts and not in any sententious way. Although Bond is relegated to a cosy sofa, I have no issues with this story. It is well written, something people often fail to notice. A common criticism of QUANTUM OF SOLACE is that normal people don’t talk in the highly literary way the governor does. But then Fleming expects us, like in the movies, to fluently transport ourselves inside the flashback rather than keep hanging on the man’s lips. Another criticism concerns a bit of sympathy Bond apparently has for Cuban rebels. I’d rather not dwell on the subject--Fleming doesn’t either--but if Bond is positioned “a little bit left of centre” as Fleming said in a Playboy interview, then so be it. It’s not a big deal. Though the oddity in this James Bond short story collection, QUANTUM OF SOLACE is perhaps my favourite of the bunch. Needless to say that literally nothing of this story was ever used in any of the Bond films, including the 2008 film of the same name.
M reluctantly sends Bond to Italy for an investigation into a drug smuggling operation which has recently found its way to England. A staid CIA informant by the name of Kristatos informs Bond that a certain Enrico Colombo is behind it all. While Bond and Kristatos are having this very conversation, they’re actually dining in Columbo’s Rome based restaurant. Bond asserts that he will kill Columbo if he must and agrees to pay Kristatos for his irrefragable “evidence” against Columbo. The target himself is meanwhile sitting only a few tables away from Bond and, after a brief disappearance, returns to publically reprimand his insolent girlfriend Lisl. This was, of course, a ruse, following Columbo’s trick with the tape recorder we know so well from the film adaptation. Bond seizes the opportunity and offers Lisl to share a taxi. The next morning they meet on a beach and Bond asks Lisl some questions. Her oblique responses foster no further avenues for Bond’s investigation; and besides, an explosion quickly renders any of that otiose.
When Bond wakes up, he finds himself aboard Columbo’s yacht. The truth is revealed at last. Kristatos had been willing to prevaricate for the benefit of his own incipient opium smuggling operations, and he needed Columbo out of the way fast. While Columbo sagaciously stays out of any drug affairs, he knows too much about Kristatos, which is why the latter has tried to cajole Bond into killing his competitor. Bond and Columbo agree to revert the favour to its unctuous propagator and comprise a plan to raid Kristatos’ warehouse. When witnessing a shipment being prepared, Bond, no longer incredulous, understands that Kristatos has been feathering his own nest all this time. A shootout ensues and Bond kills Kristatos, almost with insouciance. As Fleming is wont to do, he then reveals that Kristatos had been working for the Soviets, who believed that if England’s sons and daughters could be turned into drug addicts, the country would be crippled. Bond then receives instructions to find Lisl in a nearby hotel.
RISICO is an interesting story about one bad fighting another and Bond allying with the least obnoxious of them. I rather like how Columbo, unlike Leiter or Kerim or Quarrel, is himself not disinclined to dabble in the criminal arts, but understands the distinction between being “naughty” and being “bad”. Drugs are evil, pure and simple, and that sentiment marks the difference between Columbo and Kristatos. By the same token, with Bond tossed around between these two man, a lot seems to be happening beyond his volition. And then, towards the end, Bond leaves a definitive mark on the situation by taking out Kristatos which, given the circumstances, is more a prerogative than a duty. The film adaptation allows Columbo that final bit of dubious victory. Speaking of the film, RISICO is the ultimate backbone of the 1981 script, or at least the “bigger” half of the film, with FOR YOUR EYES ONLY more of a protracted prologue. RISICO is also the most faithfully adapted of these shorts; little was changed to fit into the movie script. It has a lot of action and moves pretty quickly, never allowing for any lulls. As a spy/assassin adventure, I rate it very highly.
The final short story in this collection puts Bond in the Seychelles Islands where a local contact, Fidele Barbey, puts Bond in contact with a rich American called Milton Krest. At first somewhat charming, Krest welcomes Bond and Barbey aboard his boat, the Wavekrest, and invites them to a hunt for a rare fish, “the Hildebrand Rarity”. Bond and Barbey agree, only to quickly discover their host’s snarky and quarrelsome demeanour. Unbecoming to a man of his status, Krest makes flippant comments about his guests’ countries of origin and incites much disdain. He’s also very pontifical about “correcting” his lovely wife Liz’s peccadillos with Machiavellian methods including a custom-made whip. When the fish is finally caught, Krest gets himself drunk beyond boiling point and turns even more derogatory and abominable. With justified contempt, Bond satisfies himself that Krest belongs in the booby hatch. Later that night, Bond can hear Krest beating up his dolorous wife again, but, though he commiserates with Liz, wisely abstains from intervention since that couldn’t possibly bring forth any auspicious consequences to this deplorable marriage. Fleming would never allow 007 to barge in during a fray over matrimonial obligations.
Yet a short while after that, Bond is distraught to find his surly host dead on deck with the Hildebrand rarity stuffed down his throat. Circumventing any unwelcome implications in some botched police investigation, he throws the corpse overboard. He then proceeds by making it look like a failed hammock allowing the craven drunk to glide off the ship. Bond goes back to sleep. The next morning, he feigns ignorance but catches no clues from either Liz or Barbey. One of both killed Krest, seeking recompense after his insults and scolding. Not much happens after that, except that Liz offers Bond to join her to Mombosa. Bond has his reservations, seeing how she might very well be a murderer. It’s a surprise that Fleming would make him worry about that, seeing how the author neither makes it absolutely certain that Liz killed Krest, nor leaves any doubts about Krest’s aggressive leanings being as exorbitant as they were cruel. He almost justifies Krest's death by default. Furhermore, previous books have put Bond in bed with dangerous women too. One wonders where this sudden angst came from.
THE HILDBRAND RARITY was more or less included in the film adaptation of LICENCE TO KILL, but with Sanchez punishing Lupe, whom he otherwise dearly loves, and Krest reduced to an auxiliary asset in the drug lord’s enterprise. Thematically, little of the story was left intact. In the film, neither Krest nor Sanchez was killed by a troubled woman seeking consolation after years of augmented abuse. This short story, however, is all about inviting death by pushing others to their limits. In that sense, Bond might be the one replacing Liz in the 1989 film, wanting Sanchez dead for what he had done to Bond's friends. I really choose to believe that Liz, rather than the good-mannered Barbey, killed Krest, the result of spending years in a quagmire of indefatigable abuses and beatings with “the corrector”. There’s only a slim chance, in my opinion, that Barbey, despite his patriotism, would risk so much for so theatrical a murder. Bond is never a suspect but he is once again reduced to the role of innocent bystander, like in QUANTUM OF SOLACE. In both stories, the events take place in the wake of a mission; they aren’t the mission itself. It doesn’t make the story any less interesting though. Fleming clearly has things to say about life besides our cold war troubles.
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY is a rare case of Fleming confecting a book from short stories originally meant, at least in part, to eventually grace the television screen. The book is also rare in the sense that Bond spends much of his time as a passive observer, or rather as an intrepid adventurer. And yet Fleming put together a riveting read, injecting each story with a new and different energy. This is in many ways a different Bond, trapped in different narratives and unusual situations, making this one of those oddities that could also be viewed as welcome changes from the usual output. One might even say that Fleming was turning experimental in his writing, something he’ll keep toying around with as we shall see two books from now. The truth, however, is that by writing short stories, Fleming didn’t attenuate the impact James Bond can have on us. The usual ingredients are here, plus more, and some of his best writing is in this book. Of course the “epic” qualities of his longer novels are lacking here, and continuity-wise I suppose I ought to have read them in a different order. But I’m not too worried about those things in this stage of the game. I didn’t merely appreciate the “break”, I found myself truly invested in these stories. My favourite one is QUANTUM OF SOLACE, followed by RISICO and FROM A VIEW TO A KILL, with THE HILDEBRAND RARITY next. FOR YOUR EYES ONLY finishes last, though I can’t say I hold any particular grudge against it. It still is, true to Fleming’s form, a solid James Bond story.
Up next is THUNDERBALL, the book that caused Kevin McClory’s almost epidemic hate campaign against Ian Fleming, EON Productions and basically us, the fans. It will introduce SPECTRE, the dominant “evil” in most of the remaining books in the series. But having sweated through roadkill, picturesque vendetta, marital drama, gang wars and more marital drama, my mind will need some rest. The balls will thunder soon enough, but not before I indulge in matters that are meant for my eyes only.
7/10
DD's 2018 book ranking
1) Casino Royale - 10/10
2) Moonraker - 9.5/10
3) From Russia With Love - 9/10
4) Dr No - 8.5/10
5) Live And Let Die - 8/10
6) Diamonds Are Forever - 7.5/10
7) Goldfinger - 7/10
8) For Your Eyes Only - 7/10
THEIR
OCCULT POWER AND MYSTIC VIRTUES
BY
W. WYNN WESTCOTT
SUPREME MAGUS OF THE ROSICRUCIAN SOCIETY OF ENGLAND
London, Benares: Theosophical Pub. society
3rd Edition
[1911]
When you are finished with the novel, there are two good film adaptations I very much recommend.
Georges Méliès Le Voyage Dans La Lune (A Trip to the Moon) is adapted from Jules Verne's book De la Terre a la Lune, in which they are shot to the moon in huge gun, in Wells' novel the intrepid pair go to the moon in a sphere covered in anti-gravity Cavorite. @DarthDimi I have seen the Mark Gatiss tv film, can't think what the other one is, but have a feeling I have seen it.
I know some people don't like short stories, but I for one love them - and this collection. I have always loved short story collections, it goes back (I think) to my reading the Pan Book of Horror series in my pre-teen days, also being a Stephen King fan there are many collections of his short stories to read.
I wish that there had been more Bond short stories, but alas…
Really interested in what you make of Thunderball, though, because on my last reading of it something niggled at me, see if it does the same to you!
Thank you, friend. I'll have to see then. It'll be interesting to discover what "niggles" at you. (I love that word!)
There was a short story by Peter Fleming in the first Pan Book of Horror Stories.
I find horror to work better in short stories, generally.
Oh, didn't know that. I don't think I ever had the 1st Book.
It's the only one I read of their horror collection and it was a mixed experience for me. Too many stories were not really bona fide horror stories. But some were great, including Fleming's. It's a neat little werewolf story.
BOOK 9
THUNDERBALL
by Ian Fleming
Ian Fleming did not die a particularly old man. He passed away at the age of 56 after suffering a heart-attack, most likely the result of a heart-disease caused by a life of excessive smoking and drinking. But if you ask some of his relatives or close friends, they will tell you the true culprit may very well have been one Kevin McClory. I tend to believe them, but I also think Fleming made two clumsy decisions with which all of it started. The first: attempting to write a film script with a few other men, namely Kevin McClory, Jack Whittingham, Ivar Bryce and Ernest Cuneo. The second: to whimsically terminate the project and absorb whatever material had already been committed to paper for his next novel. And also to not even warn his short-term partners, let alone credit them as co-creators or contributors. Who knows how many drinks and plot ideas had been dispensed during their no doubt spectacularly alcoholised sessions, and how little about who had come up with what could still be remembered the next morning. But I’m still not sure this gave Fleming any right to just voraciously collect their mutual fruits and squeeze out a novel under his solo-authorship. And yet, that’s what he did. Was he starving for inspiration? Was writer’s block hitting him hard and heavy? Whatever the case, THUNDERBALL happened, and Kevin McClory, already quite uptight after Fleming’s perfidies, could bear no more. However, the author’s blunder certainly did not give McClory the right to hysterically haunt the James Bond franchise like Ahab going after Moby Dick until the day he died. In any case, McClory and Whittingham gave Fleming a pretty hard time after THUNDERBALL’s publication. According to some, the court cases dealt Fleming’s already deteriorating health a definitively fatal blow. So in a rare moment of dire cynicism, I might submit that there’s Irish blood on the controversial novel THUNDERBALL. Whether true or not, THUNDERBALL’s film adaptation was the first Bond film I ever saw in full, and as a 6 year old boy, I loved it intensely. The novel itself was in fact the first Fleming novel I’ve ever read in its original language. I was in my later teens and until then I had only read a couple of the Dutch translations of Fleming’s novels. Suffice it to say that THUNDERBALL holds a special place in my heart. And so tonight, I have a date with this book. Barry’s THUNDERBALL score and Newman’s SPECTRE score will set the proper mood, and my reading lamp will, as usual, provide the only light I need to transport me to the Bahamas.
Right off the bat, allow me to assert that this novel contains the most amusing chapter Fleming ever wrote. And the novel starts with it. Bond is asked to join M in the latter’s office, where he is lectured by the old man on healthy habits. Bond smokes and drinks too much, and his dietary habits meet harsh disapproval as well. M, sounding like a reborn food hippy, wants Bond to enjoy the same treatment at the Shrublands health clinic that he had endured. It’s absolutely delicious to read M’s talk about herbs and other trendy food stuff, with Bond mumbling polite rejections, clearly not amused by the prospect of spending two weeks amidst people he unsurprisingly dismisses as nutcases. Whether Fleming was trying to remind himself of what constitutes a healthy life, or instead mocking the words of advice he himself had already received in real life, the opening chapter of THUNDERBALL is, in a most unconventional sense, an attention grabber. James Bond, bon vivant extraordinaire, has orders to cut back on the very things that had made him mysteriously “cool” in CASINO ROYALE. Living on the edge and all that. We may not want to do it, but our fictional heroes are granted immortality so why not let them court danger every second of the day? Then again, it really is the ninth novel in the series already; small character traits can be re-examined in order to keep James Bond interesting. The funniest thing, however, is yet to come, when a few chapters later, M himself seems to have fallen back into his own old habits. The stress of the Thunderball case has no doubt caused all that. For let us not forget, there’s an actual mission to conduct in this novel; but we’ll get there, don’t worry.
Enter Count Lippe, a regular at Shrublands, who owns a strange wrist tattoo which immediately draws Bond’s attention. Quite a coincidence for Bond to notice the tattoo, it should be said, for it is usually hidden behind Lippe’s watch. What’s even more coincidental, however, is Lippe practically standing next to Bond while 007 is having a “secret” conversation over the phone inquiring after the meaning of the tattoo. And here’s where I have a major confession to make: I detest coincidences as a storytelling instrument. When they’re not too conspicuous, an author may still get away with them, as Fleming, in fact, has quite a number of times in previous novels. But here it’s very much on the nose. It’s so on the nose, in fact, I struggle with it in both book and film. On top of that, Bond makes a serious mistake with that phone call and Fleming even mentions it. I honestly wish he had found a more convincing manner to pull the shroud of evil over Lippe. For lest we forget the part that counts, we learn that Lippe is tied in with the Red Tong from Macau, so he’s not likely to let Bond’s snooping pass by without consequence. Curiosity killed the cat and it nearly kills Bond too when he is agonisingly subjected to the famous traction table at its highest and potentially lethal setting. One wonders what uses a health clinic has for a setting that might put its patients directly in their graves. Of course, Bond is last-minute rescued by the attractive Pat Fearing and repays Lippe the extended courtesy by nearly scalding his skin off in a steam bath. Yes, it’s a playground fight alright: two grown-ups trapped in a rod measuring contest.
But we’re allowed a welcome break from this puerile clash when the big fish in the aquarium is finally revealed: SPECTRE. After eight books of fighting real-life enemies such as the Soviets and American gangsters, Bond will, at last, receive his own fictional villain in Ernst Stavro Blofeld. This self-made criminal mastermind has concocted a plan to hold NATO ransom by hijacking two atomic bombs. In fact, Count Lippe happens to be one of Blofeld’s agents, strategically positioned near Shrublands to ensure a successful hijacking operation. Quite a coincidence that he of all people should be the one facing off with Bond at the clinic right now… We immediately learn all we need to know about Blofeld. He neither looks like Donald Pleasance nor like Dr Evil, and he makes his words count. When a member of SPECTRE violates a kidnapped girl, Blofeld kills him in a most dramatic fashion and repays half of the ransom money to the girl’s parents. I love this small yet characteristic feature of Fleming’s villains. There’s always a part of them that sounds almost too good to be true. No matter how malevolent, they usually come with a clear-cut set of ethical principles which even the best-mannered citizens in real life rarely possess. Yet without even a blink of an eye, they will steamroll over any human obstacle they encounter. Outlandish characters indeed. And now, Blofeld has sent a message to the prime minister, demanding £100.000.000 or else two major cities will be destroyed. It’s at this point clear to me that this was indeed intended as a film script. Though Fleming had already projected a moon rocket onto a submarine and organised a raid on Fort Knox, threats to detonate atomic bombs that can destroy London, New York, Moscow, … sound a lot like world domination plans, the stuff that usually only James Bond parodies work with. I truly prefer some of the more low-key but refined plots we’ve encountered in previous novels, even though I am intrigued by SPECTRE as an organisation. To be frank, I often wonder who came up with the idea of SPECTRE and Blofeld. McClory always claimed he did, but I hesitate to believe much of what this madman ever said, so I guess I’ll remain in blissful ignorance of the true conception of SPECTRE.
Bond, barely “recovered” from his sobering experiences at Shrublands, returns to civilisation and perhaps also to delicious food, with a vengeful Count Lippe meanwhile on his tail. But since Lippe had been quarrelling with Bond so childishly, Blofeld considers his agent a problem, and has him eliminated before Lippe can kill Bond. More coincidence, or rather luck, for Bond. Next, 007 receives orders from M to immediately travel to the Bahamas. Other agents are sent to other parts of the world. All are tasked with finding the hijacked bombs. Project “Thunderball” takes precedence over everything else. Fine with me, but the world is a pretty big place and even if you send all your agents to various parts of the globe, it’ll take years to cover it all. Who knows where SPECTRE is operating from? There are some clues though. For example, we know that the complicit NATO observer Pettachi brought the bomber down somewhere in Atlantic waters, so it’s highly unlikely that SPECTRE has stored the bombs away in the Himalayas. But even then, a lot of surface scouting remains. Only because M has this crazy hunch about the Bahamas, Bond is sent there. Will he be the one lucky enough to find the bombs? Of course he will. Fleming is never going to devote the rest of his book to an empty pursuit. It’s indisputable that Bond will find the bombs in the Bahamas because why else would we keep on reading?
Once in Nassau, more lucky coincidences--or is it coincidental luck?--awaits Bond. Putting some very loose twos and twos together, Bond arranges a meeting with lovely Domino Vitali, sister of the now dead Pettachi and mistress to Blofeld’s field agent Emilio Largo. Since SPECTRE uses a rotating system of numbers instead of names, Largo is currently “number one” and Blofeld “number two”. This quirky little detail never fails to distract me a wee bit, since in the films Blofeld is firmly established to be “number one”, which, given his position as “chief” of SPECTRE, makes nothing but sense. Fleming’s incentive for sending the number designation through a systematic permutation makes sense too, but it is more unusual. Yes, details matter to me. They matter so much in fact, that I’m not at all pleased with how Fleming, again, has Bond’s success based on vague hunches and a good dose of blind luck. Meeting with Domino proves fruitful, as she indirectly introduces him to Largo, whom Bond, once again working from an inexplicable hunch, tries to bluff out of his ‘cover’ by dropping the word ‘Spectre’ a few times during a card game. I don’t want to disparage Fleming’s writing of course; he comes up with really good prose. It’s simply unfortunate in my opinion that Bond does more snooping than spying, and that his success is based more on luck and coincidences than on talents and skills.
But at least he’s not in it alone. Temporarily working for the CIA again, Felix Leiter assists Bond more or less during the entire Nassau investigation. I emphasise “more or less” because what they do is visit Largo’s hydrofoil ‘Disco Volante’ and scout the island by helicopter with barely any practical results. And finally, Fleming resorts to “coincidental luck”--again. With the clock ticking, Bond and Leiter are indeed lucky to find the bomber buried under water when they do. And after that, Bond can pull one hell of a nasty stunt. He makes love to Domino first, and then coldly informs her of her brother’s death. Hiding behind his duty, Bond basically tells her to put her grief in the freezer for now because she has more urgent businesses to attend to. Subsequently, he asks Domino to spy for him aboard the Disco, adding insult to injury. Fleming makes it sound conceivable and almost good, but the fact remains that the game of connecting the dots has been particularly disappointing so far; and with Domino now dropped in the middle of what could have been very exciting if Bond had been there instead, another opportunity for tension is effectively taken away. Then again, Leiter and Bond will slip aboard a nuclear submarine and pursue the Disco. Quickly thereafter, Largo’s nuclear courier crew meets Bond’s frogmen for an underwater battle in which Bond is almost killed by Largo. Domino, in an astonishing act of, can you guess it?, coincidental luck, shoots Largo when he’s about to lead Bond to the Grim Reaper. I believe the overall issue I have with the story is made abundantly clear at this point. I will, however, give major props to Fleming for pulling off the underwater battle. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to write it rather than show it in a movie, yet his choice of words, his pacing and his tension building prove most effective. Bond and Domino have, in any case, been able to avert a major disaster. Because the story was going there. SPECTRE was going to blow something up. But it’s finished now. Largo’s dead; and Blofeld… well, we don’t know about Blofeld. Yet. Fleming was smart to keep a few extras in his basket for future novels.
It’s all here; the cocktail, the recipe for a Bond story. Exotic locations, good looking girls, an evil organisation with a world-upsetting plot, action and gadgets. Yes, this is how they used to sell the Bond films to us in the less sophisticated marketing campaigns of the older days too. The big scope is prevalent in this novel; no wonder the folks at EON productions were very eager to adapt THUNDERBALL. No wonder that the story had, in the first place, been meant to serve a film adaptation. But then the same thing had been true for the short stories of FOR YOUR EYES ONLY, albeit for television episodes, and yet those shorts were still meticulously engineered by Fleming, with Bond far more actively and impactfully involved in things that he is in THUNDERBALL. When they finally got around to producing a THUNDERBALL film adaptation in the mid-1960’s, elements were added which, I must concede, I applaud them for. The evil vixen Fiona Volpe, for example, is a stroke of genius. Contrasting the somewhat bland Domino, she gives Bond a wild and hard time every time the story flirts with freezing solid. There’s action taking place at Palmyra; and during the climax, Bond gets to leave a bigger mark on Largo’s defeat. Furthermore, Barry’s score and the actors’ performances generously contribute to raising tension where otherwise there might have been a lot less of that. Fleming doesn’t have these tools at his disposal but royally compensates by writing energetically and in short, enjoyable sentences. And that may very well be THUNDERBALL’s saving grace for me. When jumping from chapter to chapter, the main story often matters less to me than the in-the-moment elation Fleming’s prose provides. Dialogues are amusing, descriptions of the exotic locations prove exciting, action is well-written too. The reading experience of THUNDERBALL is probably more of a delight than the actual analysis of its story, while with other authors it can happen to be quite the other way around.
That I simply love Fleming’s prose is at this point not a secret anymore to those who have been keeping track of my reviews. Yet contemporary critics were often unkind to Fleming’s skills as a writer. Either I’m missing something, not being a native English speaker and all that, or those critics had a pretty big stick up their arses. I’m not sure the second option is very far-fetched as there exists a lot of snootiness in the world of published critics. It makes the usual negative comments about Fleming’s “snobbery” somewhat ironical. Strangely though, THUNDERBALL was actually well-received for being “straightforward” and with “great events”. I’m always happy to read positive things about Fleming’s writings of course, but to call it “his best novel since DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER” goes a bit too far for me. Of course this all narrows down to personal opinion, but praising THUNDERBALL after being very harsh towards DR NO feels like the world upside down. And that comes from someone who, as explained in the first paragraph, holds a special place for THUNDERBALL in his heart, but then more for nostalgic reasons I guess.
THUNDERBALL is never boring, never particularly unpleasant nor uninteresting. Fleming’s pen, or rather typewriter, is firing on all cylinders. But then Fleming has a talent for making us live the ultimate dream by finding the right words and creating great characters. It’s the actual story of THUNDERBALL that is the novel’s ultimate weakness, and one the film adaptation only barely managed to somewhat correct. My impression is that the story was put together from individually good ideas which, unfortunately, lacked cohesion. And to my surprise, the man who gave us some of the most nail-bitingly tense thrillers ever written with CASINO ROYALE and MOONRAKER, simply couldn’t find plausible and interesting ways to make it all click this time. The connective tissue between all the elements of THUNDERBALL is more luck than skill, more coincidence than causality. While reading the novel, I frequently realise that Fleming is coasting on a lot of my goodwill. I know that Bond is good at his job, but it’s a knowledge I myself need to bring to this novel if I want to stay convinced of the fact. Because THUNDERBALL never truly makes me frightened that SPECTRE will succeed, and it never assures me that only James Bond 007 could bring this ordeal to a satisfying conclusion. I am, however, charmed by the opening chapter, intrigued by SPECTRE and its chief Blofeld, and amused by Bond’s interactions with Domino, M, Largo and Leiter. Even when a wee less sharp than usual, Fleming’s pen still works the magic.
With THUNDERBALL I have opened up what I consider the final segment of Fleming’s legacy: the SPECTRE files. But only the first novel in this segment is sunny and bright. I know what will come after this one, and there will be a lot of clouds to deal with. THUNDERBALL, like its movie adaptation, is for many people the ‘iconic’ Bond, the ideal cocktail, the so-called Bond-formula complete and in its most balanced form. While that may be so, I don’t think there’s ever been a more expressed contrast between three consecutive Bond novels than between THUNDERBALL and its two successors, THE SPY WHO LOVED ME and ON HER MAJESTY’s SECRET SERVICE. While the latter two will prove highly experimental in many regards, THUNDERBALL is anything but. In a narrative sense, it is even a watered down version of the typical Bond adventure, playing it surprisingly safe considering its almost outrageous plot. If Fleming had managed to find more effective spy work for Bond, THUNDERBALL could easily have topped MOONRAKER in terms of grand-scale excitement. Now, sadly, I can only applaud the grand scale, not the excitement. Perhaps I can reverse that with the next novel, THE SPY WHO LOVED ME, known for being anything but grand scale, but in a very peculiar sense potentially much more exciting. We’ll see. But I’ve just been in the air, under water, on land, on a traction table, … and so it might be best to retire for the night. But channelling my inner Bond, there may still be some time for love left, though not coming from a spy, and it may involve some balls, but hopefully no thunder. I’m sorry. These puns have lost their charm aeons ago, but they’re hard to resist. Goodnight, 007.
6.5/10
DD's 2018 book ranking
1) Casino Royale - 10/10
2) Moonraker - 9.5/10
3) From Russia With Love - 9/10
4) Dr No - 8.5/10
5) Live And Let Die - 8/10
6) Diamonds Are Forever - 7.5/10
7) Goldfinger - 7/10
8) For Your Eyes Only - 7/10
9) Thunderball - 6.5/10
Fleming was under the mistaken impression that Bryce owned the rights to all the scripts and treatments. After McClory proved unable to bring the Bond film project to life, Fleming decided to mine the scripts for plot points (rather than simply novelize them). In hindsight, he certainly should have warned McClory and Whittingham, though they would have probably sued him in any case.
The opening chapters are also wholly original--they weren't in the scripts and were inspired by Fleming's own failed attempts to dry out at a health farm.
As Bob Dylan once sang, "to live outside the law you must be honest."
A study of the surviving letters and memos suggest McClory could have had the idea of making the villains a non-political terrorist organization, but Spectre and Blofeld were almost certainly devised by Fleming himself (who was fond of the word "spectre" and had used it in previous novels). Certainly the earliest mention of Spectre is in a memo of Fleming's.
That's fair, but it could be applied to all of the Bond novels. Fleming was not good at plotting, but he was very good at pacing (what Raymond Benson called "the Fleming sweep"). First-time readers of Thunderball would have been hustled past the plot's weaknesses by the pace. Matters are different for a reader long familiar with the film and book.
Perhaps the opposite for some. I lent the book to a friend who'd never read it or seen the film, and he told me the lead-up to the underwater battle, with Bond and the sailors stalking Largo, was incredibly suspenseful.
Not that astonishing though--we already knew Domino was a strong, determined character who had vowed to kill Largo. Her thirst for revenge undoubtedly gave her the endurance to make good her word.
I can't applaud that, since Fleming's Domino was anything but bland. She was fiery and willful, but with a good deal of endearing vulnerability. Her fire was transferred entirely to Fiona, but the vulnerability never made it past the page. I would have much rather had a well-characterized heroine rather than a bland heroine and a fun but one-dimensional villainess. The film's story "flirts with freezing solid" because all the extra scenes, characters, and subplots made the narrative over-complicated and bloated. And they substantially retarded the pacing.
The story is a bit more complicated. Up to Dr. No, Fleming was usually well-reviewed and praised for his writing. But when Fleming's popularity began substantially rising, around the time of Dr. No, he began getting attacked for "sex, sadism, and snobbery" (starting with the New Statesman's review of DN). Fleming's nastiest critics primarily attacked him on grounds of morality; bad writing thrown in as an extra charge (perhaps because even now many people refuse to admit that "immoral" works can be well-written and artful). After the books became mega-bestsellers, this only increased the animosity and resentment of tastemakers and cultural comissars.
The reviews I've seen tended to view the nuclear hijacking-ransom concept as far-fetched and implausible. I think that has lessened over time.
Thank you for your comments, sir! I learned a lot of new stuff just now. Thank you, indeed!
You are right about SPECTRE. Fleming had called the machine in FRWL a SPECTOR for example. He certainly liked the word.