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Kinglsey Amis reviews John Pearson's Life of Ian Fleming
DIAL M FOR MOTHER (The Observer; Oct 23, 1966)
by Kingsley Amis
John Pearson was a journalist for some years, and this biography is journalistic in method: factual, well-documented, thorough in its presentation of surface events. With Ian Fleming only a couple of years in his grave, to fault such an approach would not be easy. The study in depth, like the definitive critical analysis, will have to wait. So it may be unreasonable to complain that this book does little more than fill out the impression of Fleming that can be gained from already recorded interviews and such, and from a close reading of the Bond novels.
The journalist is given jobs, or undertakes assignments, as distinct from the biographer or critic who, presumably, chooses his subject for some more emotional reason. Mr. Pearson’s last book, it seems, was an account of that perennially unburning issue, the activities of Donald Campbell with his motorcar. At times, the journalistic necessity of sharpening, vitalising, jazzing up not very dramatic material, of making a story out of a non-story, lies heavy on this biography. A chapter headed “Enter Chandler” promises more than a short account of an unsuccessful lunch party and an assertion that Chandler's encouragement helped Fleming to decide against closing the Bond saga after the fifth novel.
One probably expects nothing very much from “Eden at Goldenye,” and one certainly gets it. The positive information in these 10 pages could be boiled down into, and would have been perfectly acceptable as, a catty paragraph about the prime-ministerial couple’s relaxed stay at the luxurious Jamaican home of famed Bond creator Ian Fleming and sparkling hostess Anne Fleming being enlivened by a rat-hunt organised by gallant Sir Anthony and his two detectives—seven rats reported missing. Elsewhere, the gossip columnist’s chronic drizzle of names becomes a downpour.
The interesting, or at any rate piquant, scraps of information here could not be worked up into any sort of story. I read with a sense of shock, as if life had suddenly revealed itself after all as a monstrous charade, that in 1948 or so Fleming was planning a book on Paracelsus, the sixteenth-century philosopher, in collaboration with Edith Sitwell. And yet, reconsidered, the pairing is not so unlikely. The man who had studied Rilke and Thomas Mann as well as Sapper had the markings of a secret highbrow as well as being, quite out in the open, a romantic pessimist with faint Wagnerian overtones; see the poison-garden scenes in You Only Live Twice, the most haunting and vividly realized locale in any of the books, not excluding Dr. No’s Crab Key.
When it comes to what some readers will regard as his main task, that of suggesting links between Fleming and his work, Mr. Pearson is uninformative. Fleming smoked a lot. Bond smokes a lot. Fleming liked cars. So does Bond. And Darko Kerim (From Russia with Love) is partly based on a real person, and Donovan Grant (same book) is named after a real person. The only striking identifications are of Aleister Crowley—whom Fleming tried to call in to interrogate Rudolf Hess—with Le Chiffre (Casino Royale), and of Fleming’s mother with M: get your teeth into that one, chaps.
The trouble is that Mr. Pearson fails to take Fleming seriously enough as a writer. Predictably, he finds the characterization two dimensional and repetitive. This sounds fair enough until one starts wondering how it could have been deepened without distraction and losing pace, and recognizing the powers of invention that gave each successive villain the appearance of frightening novelty, and remembering Honeychile Rider (never mind her name for now), Hugo Drax in his non-villainous moments, Darko Kerim, whether “based on” somebody or not. And, of course, Bond himself is found to be a mouthpiece, a dummy, a zombie, etc., etc., as if that mattered.
Mr. Pearson subscribes, with a modification, to the fashionable view that the universal success of Fleming’s novels is not specially connected with their literary qualities. The standard line is that, by some more or less discreditable—and very mysterious—process, the books appeared at just the right time to seize the collective imagination and all that. (In fact, as is demonstrated here, it took five years and five books for the seed to strike, for Fleming to create the taste by which he is enjoyed.) According to Mr. Pearson what did the trick was the depth of the author’s identification with his hero. Such identification, however deep, would explain and guarantee nothing. Fleming succeeded because within the limits he set himself—and nobody has ever understood that part of the job more clearly—he was a popular writer of genius who, like all such, made no attempt to gauge his public and understood very little about the appeal of his work.
The book has some well-chosen photographs and a hideous plastic-and-floodlight Jekyll-and-Hyde cover illustration.
by Kingsley Amis
John Pearson was a journalist for some years, and this biography is journalistic in method: factual, well-documented, thorough in its presentation of surface events. With Ian Fleming only a couple of years in his grave, to fault such an approach would not be easy. The study in depth, like the definitive critical analysis, will have to wait. So it may be unreasonable to complain that this book does little more than fill out the impression of Fleming that can be gained from already recorded interviews and such, and from a close reading of the Bond novels.
The journalist is given jobs, or undertakes assignments, as distinct from the biographer or critic who, presumably, chooses his subject for some more emotional reason. Mr. Pearson’s last book, it seems, was an account of that perennially unburning issue, the activities of Donald Campbell with his motorcar. At times, the journalistic necessity of sharpening, vitalising, jazzing up not very dramatic material, of making a story out of a non-story, lies heavy on this biography. A chapter headed “Enter Chandler” promises more than a short account of an unsuccessful lunch party and an assertion that Chandler's encouragement helped Fleming to decide against closing the Bond saga after the fifth novel.
One probably expects nothing very much from “Eden at Goldenye,” and one certainly gets it. The positive information in these 10 pages could be boiled down into, and would have been perfectly acceptable as, a catty paragraph about the prime-ministerial couple’s relaxed stay at the luxurious Jamaican home of famed Bond creator Ian Fleming and sparkling hostess Anne Fleming being enlivened by a rat-hunt organised by gallant Sir Anthony and his two detectives—seven rats reported missing. Elsewhere, the gossip columnist’s chronic drizzle of names becomes a downpour.
The interesting, or at any rate piquant, scraps of information here could not be worked up into any sort of story. I read with a sense of shock, as if life had suddenly revealed itself after all as a monstrous charade, that in 1948 or so Fleming was planning a book on Paracelsus, the sixteenth-century philosopher, in collaboration with Edith Sitwell. And yet, reconsidered, the pairing is not so unlikely. The man who had studied Rilke and Thomas Mann as well as Sapper had the markings of a secret highbrow as well as being, quite out in the open, a romantic pessimist with faint Wagnerian overtones; see the poison-garden scenes in You Only Live Twice, the most haunting and vividly realized locale in any of the books, not excluding Dr. No’s Crab Key.
When it comes to what some readers will regard as his main task, that of suggesting links between Fleming and his work, Mr. Pearson is uninformative. Fleming smoked a lot. Bond smokes a lot. Fleming liked cars. So does Bond. And Darko Kerim (From Russia with Love) is partly based on a real person, and Donovan Grant (same book) is named after a real person. The only striking identifications are of Aleister Crowley—whom Fleming tried to call in to interrogate Rudolf Hess—with Le Chiffre (Casino Royale), and of Fleming’s mother with M: get your teeth into that one, chaps.
The trouble is that Mr. Pearson fails to take Fleming seriously enough as a writer. Predictably, he finds the characterization two dimensional and repetitive. This sounds fair enough until one starts wondering how it could have been deepened without distraction and losing pace, and recognizing the powers of invention that gave each successive villain the appearance of frightening novelty, and remembering Honeychile Rider (never mind her name for now), Hugo Drax in his non-villainous moments, Darko Kerim, whether “based on” somebody or not. And, of course, Bond himself is found to be a mouthpiece, a dummy, a zombie, etc., etc., as if that mattered.
Mr. Pearson subscribes, with a modification, to the fashionable view that the universal success of Fleming’s novels is not specially connected with their literary qualities. The standard line is that, by some more or less discreditable—and very mysterious—process, the books appeared at just the right time to seize the collective imagination and all that. (In fact, as is demonstrated here, it took five years and five books for the seed to strike, for Fleming to create the taste by which he is enjoyed.) According to Mr. Pearson what did the trick was the depth of the author’s identification with his hero. Such identification, however deep, would explain and guarantee nothing. Fleming succeeded because within the limits he set himself—and nobody has ever understood that part of the job more clearly—he was a popular writer of genius who, like all such, made no attempt to gauge his public and understood very little about the appeal of his work.
The book has some well-chosen photographs and a hideous plastic-and-floodlight Jekyll-and-Hyde cover illustration.
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Comments
It reads as rather critical in tone, but I suppose that was generally the Amis style of review.
It was, but I think Amis's criticism in this case is warranted, though harshly phrased. Pearson's book is a terrific biography, but Amis is right to say Pearson comes up short in "suggesting links between Fleming and his work" and also justified in arguing Pearson doesn't "take Fleming seriously enough as a writer." Perhaps that's because Pearson found Fleming more interesting, as a case of an author killed by his own character. Lycett's biography improves on aspects of Pearson, but it has the weaknesses Amis found in its predecessor. Both biographers found Fleming's life so interesting that the books took a definite back seat. Amis approaches from the opposite direction, and I wager many of us Fleming fans do as well.
That said, out of the two, PussyNoMore does find Pearson’s effort the best and the most readable. Lycett’s effort was actually rather boring and dissipated into a lot of minutia about irrelevant characters.
Both remain absolute musts for any literary Bond aficionado.
Andrew Lycett's Fleming bio is the best one for my money, though they all have their merits of course.
As Amis writes, "the study in depth, like the definitive critical analysis, will have to wait." His Bond Dossier is still the most enjoyable critical work, but it was meant to be an overview rather than an in depth study. Henry Chancellor's James Bond: The Man and His World is also essential reference, but as a reference work rather than literary criticism.
P.S. Thank you Pussy! (I always say that in my Sean Connery voice.)
Not a bio per se, but I really liked Parker's work in his Goldeneye.
When the biography was finally published it did not earn her approval:
Pearson was given an opportunity to respond by the editor of Ann's letters and wrote:
I guess he knew a lot more than he could wrote, but we'll never know...
Perhaps we will--Pearson deposited all 82 of the interviews made for the biography at the University of Indiana (which also holds Fleming's manuscripts). The list of interviewees is here. Parker drew on many of these interviews to write his Goldeneye book. Someday an enterprising Bond scholar should visit Indiana and catalogue the most interesting unused material.
It is a great read and entertained many who were already quite knowledgable on the subject.
Revelator’s information that Pearson deposited his interviews at the University of Indiana is fascinating!
I live in Spain!
Perhaps Revelator knows ?
They would be fascinating to read. When PussyNoMore looked at the link he found that Pearson had interviewed both Eric Ambler and Graham Greene!
It's a very long time since PussyNoMore read the biography and he can't remember what those interviews translated into in terms of content but anything to do with Ambler or Greene floats PussyNoMore's boat.
Alas, the interviews remain on paper only. I am not in beautiful Spain, but even my hometown of San Francisco is still 2,200 miles away from Bloomington, Indiana, and when I take vacations I spend them in more exotic places than the Midwest. But someday I will have to go!
Anyway, it's a shame that the most interesting parts of these interviews haven't been published already. I always envy fans of Conan Doyle or Scott Fitzgerald, since everything by or relating to those writers gets published or made easily accessible. The field of Fleming studies is comparatively threadbare, though I hope things will change if more academics get involved in studying Fleming.
Incidentally, Eric Ambler was a friend of Fleming's who enjoyed his company and praised his writing style. Greene was not a friend, and though Fleming greatly admired him, Greene was less than complimentary about Bond.
PussyNoMore knew that Greene was less than complimentary about Bond but He didn’t know that Ambler was a friend of Fleming’s- how fascinating !
Indeed. Ambler selected "From a View to Kill" for his spy fiction anthology To Catch a Spy and wrote "Critics rarely remark on how well written the James Bond stories are. I suppose that with a man as civilized and amusing as Mr Fleming, good writing is taken for granted."
He supports Revelator’s view that fans of ‘Doyle’ and ‘Fitzgerald’ are to be envied for their easy access to information pertaining to every aspect of their work, lifes and associated activity.
PussyNoMore has long thought that IFP/eon should do more to better curate Fleming’s heritage.
At the end of the day, they are the principle financial beneficiaries of his work.
Frankly, even Fleming’s centenary exhibition at The British War Museum was pretty thin gruel.
Surely every aspect of Fleming should be available for future generations - the information exists, it just needs pulling together.
Meanwhile, Revelatory has inspired PussyNoMore to return to Bond school and to try harder. He just hopes he doesn’t get kicked out for mishandling himself with a maid !