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Solo: A James Bond Novel review – Has William Boyd outdone Ian Fleming? Solo: A James Bond Novel review – Has William Boyd outdone Ian Fleming?
(about 1 hour later)
It's a curious phenomenon, the rise of the semi-canonical sequel. It's a return to the nursery, a kind of fan-fiction, and a reluctance to accept that the final page of the book is the end of the story. Particularly prone to this is James Bond's audience, appropriately enough, given that the Bond books are basically adolescent in appeal (which is not to say this is a bad thing). Those written by Ian Fleming are now hugely outnumbered by those that aren't. The exercise was given an immediate pseudo-legitimacy by Kingsley Amis, who published the first post-Fleming Bond story, Colonel Sun, in 1968; most recently, Sebastian Faulks gave the franchise further respectability with Devil May Care. It's a curious phenomenon, the rise of the semi-canonical sequel. It's a return to the nursery, a kind of fan-fiction, and a reluctance to accept that the final page of the book is the end of the story. Particularly prone to this is James Bond's audience, appropriately enough, given that the Bond books are basically adolescent in appeal (which is not to say this is a bad thing). Those written by Ian Fleming are now hugely outnumbered by those that aren't. The exercise was given an immediate pseudo-legitimacy by Kingsley Amis, who published the first post-Fleming Bond story, Colonel Sun, in 1968; more recently, Sebastian Faulks gave the franchise further respectability with Devil May Care.
William Boyd is, with Amis, and pace Faulks, perhaps the most serious, or most respected author to take up the Bond baton. One does wonder why? He can hardly need the money, or the potential risk to his reputation. Amis put his finger on it, perhaps, when he said we want to be Bond: and the "we" here also means "writers". We have long gone past the point when Bond stories were taken seriously, if they ever were; as the films have, for most of the last 40 years, been travesties of the original concept, Bond is a barrel whose bottom has been scraped right through, and now represents only a kind of Ukip masturbation fantasy in this country (remember that union jack parachute in The Spy Who Loved Me?) and formulaic high jinks elsewhere.William Boyd is, with Amis, and pace Faulks, perhaps the most serious, or most respected author to take up the Bond baton. One does wonder why? He can hardly need the money, or the potential risk to his reputation. Amis put his finger on it, perhaps, when he said we want to be Bond: and the "we" here also means "writers". We have long gone past the point when Bond stories were taken seriously, if they ever were; as the films have, for most of the last 40 years, been travesties of the original concept, Bond is a barrel whose bottom has been scraped right through, and now represents only a kind of Ukip masturbation fantasy in this country (remember that union jack parachute in The Spy Who Loved Me?) and formulaic high jinks elsewhere.
That said, I have to admit that I found Solo at least as fun as everyone said it was, and at times I found myself wondering if Boyd had outdone Fleming – that is, constructed a plausible look behind the curtains of British post-imperial intelligence, with the adventure, sadism and sex ramped up. Bond – aged 45 now, in 1969 – is sent to a civil-war-torn imaginary African state ("Zanzarim") to get close to the brilliant general whose tactics are making the government's job difficult. The British interest resides in the fact that the country is sitting on an enormous amount of untapped oil. Bond's job is to make the general "a less efficient soldier," in M's words. That said, I have to admit that I found Solo at least as fun as everyone said it was, and at times I found myself wondering if Boyd had outdone Fleming – that is, constructed a plausible look behind the curtains of British post-imperial intelligence, with the adventure, sadism and sex ramped up. Bond – aged 45 now, in 1969 – is sent to a civil-war-torn imaginary African state ("Zanzarim") to get close to the brilliant general whose tactics are making the government's job difficult. The British interest resides in the fact that the country is sitting on an enormous amount of untapped oil. Bond's job is to make the general "a less efficient soldier", in M's words.
And, as romps go, it romps. Bond still drinks and smokes too much; indeed, Boyd seems to have decided that Bond's Morlands are a bit lightweight has him smoking African cigarettes instead, which, if my experience is any guide, feel like grenades going off in your chest. (There is another joke that has Bond reading Graham Greene's The Heart of the Matter as part of his preparation. Bond is famously unliterary.) The tone is just right; on the qui vive for solecisms or anachronisms, I found none. Even the baddy is perfectly judged: with a disfigured face, and one eye that cannot stop weeping; a brilliant touch. This is a powerful and smoothly running entertainment machine.And, as romps go, it romps. Bond still drinks and smokes too much; indeed, Boyd seems to have decided that Bond's Morlands are a bit lightweight has him smoking African cigarettes instead, which, if my experience is any guide, feel like grenades going off in your chest. (There is another joke that has Bond reading Graham Greene's The Heart of the Matter as part of his preparation. Bond is famously unliterary.) The tone is just right; on the qui vive for solecisms or anachronisms, I found none. Even the baddy is perfectly judged: with a disfigured face, and one eye that cannot stop weeping; a brilliant touch. This is a powerful and smoothly running entertainment machine.
But, but. I would strongly recommend not reading this if you have recently read a Fleming Bond. It was Martin Amis who said of novels that each of them displays, pinned and wriggling, the novelist's soul for all to see. This applies across genres, and part of the savour of Fleming's work is the way we get to peer behind his curtains, too. For Fleming, sadism was not assumed, it was part of his being. There is none of Bond's – how best to put this? – reprehensible attitude to women here, or homosexuals, or anything else (bar a little drink-driving) that might jar with contemporary standards. A tacit clean-up job has been done on the seamier aspects of the spy's character, which is a failure of nerve, if an understandable one; although at least when he somewhat implausibly acts the valiant knight, defending a woman's honour, he does so with satisfying violence. Also, Boyd has chosen to ignore the events of Fleming's final, exhausted Bond novels – as well as his fondness for the exclamation mark. There is, besides, the nagging sense that Bond is a little too decent here. He was never a bounder in the Fleming books – only his smile was cruel – but after the scene where he tries to rescue some starving children, I couldn't quite get the title of Boyd's first novel out of my head: A Good Man in Africa.But, but. I would strongly recommend not reading this if you have recently read a Fleming Bond. It was Martin Amis who said of novels that each of them displays, pinned and wriggling, the novelist's soul for all to see. This applies across genres, and part of the savour of Fleming's work is the way we get to peer behind his curtains, too. For Fleming, sadism was not assumed, it was part of his being. There is none of Bond's – how best to put this? – reprehensible attitude to women here, or homosexuals, or anything else (bar a little drink-driving) that might jar with contemporary standards. A tacit clean-up job has been done on the seamier aspects of the spy's character, which is a failure of nerve, if an understandable one; although at least when he somewhat implausibly acts the valiant knight, defending a woman's honour, he does so with satisfying violence. Also, Boyd has chosen to ignore the events of Fleming's final, exhausted Bond novels – as well as his fondness for the exclamation mark. There is, besides, the nagging sense that Bond is a little too decent here. He was never a bounder in the Fleming books – only his smile was cruel – but after the scene where he tries to rescue some starving children, I couldn't quite get the title of Boyd's first novel out of my head: A Good Man in Africa.