Devil May Care (a James Bond novel)

Release Date: 05/28/2008

Publisher: Doubleday

Accomplices: Official UK Site

Buy the book: Amazon.com

The Charge

“All right,” said Bond. “It’s a hundred pounds, isn’t it?”
“I believe so. So…Shall we say a hundred thousand?”
Gorner was still not looking at Bond. He was bending over his bag to extract a new racquet and was testing the tension by banging the frame of another racquet against the strings. He said, “I mean francs, of course, Mr. Bond.”
“Old, presumably,” said Bond.
“Oh, no. New. As new as we can find them.”
Bond calculated rapidly. It was more than seven thousand pounds, silly money, far more than he could afford, but in the strange tussle to which he now appeared committed, he felt he could show no weakness. “All right, Dr. Gorner,” he said. “Your serve.”

The Case

James Bond has always straddled the dual concerns of artistry and commercialism. When the budding novelist Ian Fleming first created the character, Bond was a brash agent whose inexperience and overconfidence doomed him to death at the hands of a ruthless mercenary. Such an ending to this first novel was the only way to remain faithful to Fleming’s experience: cocksure agents rarely lasted long in the field. Casino Royale was to be an authoritative calling card to the world of espionage literature, a tonic for the contrivances and mumbo-jumbo that diluted the genre. Yet when Fleming sought the advice of a friend, he was urged to reconsider Bond’s early demise and alter the book’s ending. James Bond was a compelling agent; his continued adventures could be lucrative.

With this early concession to commercial concerns, Fleming opened the door. Bond indeed became lucrative. And his franchise was birthed with one eye towards artistry and one towards cash.

Bond’s literary adventures ostensibly concluded with You Only Live Twice, a ruminative work that is half comedic travelogue (it is better to travel hopefully…) and half doom (…than to arrive). Fleming wrapped up the threads of Bond’s life, the pains and desires he’d carried in his heart from the first novel forth. Fleming closed the book on Blofeld, the Service, and even Bond’s national identity. He left Bond in the arms of a perfect mate in a remote corner of the globe with no hope (nor desire) for rescue. The Walther PPK had become a ploughshare; the mercenary, a fisherman.

Yet Fleming could not resist leaving the door open via a few sentences at the end. A halfhearted attempt to resurrect James Bond called The Man With the Golden Gun was posthumously released; the dual concerns were back in full. The Man With the Golden Gun was Fleming’s last gasp of James Bond, though the breath of another writer (if rumors are true) administered CPR to complete the novel.

Kingsley Amis was the first author to officially take up the pen and carry on Fleming’s legacy. Colonel Sun’s heart is in the right place; it is the best non-Fleming James Bond novel. Less certain is the heart of John Gardner, a talent who penned a cohesive series of Bond novels but who openly admitted that the character was never his. Gardner’s body of Bond novels is uneven (particularly near the end) but he did an excellent job of incorporating the post-cinematic Bond into a modern take on Fleming’s universe.

The dilution of the literary Bond became complete with the arrival of Raymond Benson, whose Bond lived for the spray of bullets and thrilled in slaughtering adversaries. Fleming’s Bond had always wrestled with killing; had always despised the dark acts on behalf of Her Majesty that prevented him from buying a chicken farm and settling down with a beautiful woman. Benson’s Bond toted an Uzi and sprayed down faceless foreigners with the xenophobic bloodlust patented by John Rambo.

Which brings us to Sebastian Faulks and Devil May Care. The novel, released on the date that would have been Fleming’s 100th birthday, is honorary. Faulks wrote as Fleming wrote, a peculiar ritual involving 2,000 words a day and lots of snorkeling. More importantly, Faulks did his level best to capture the cadence of Fleming’s prose and the spirit of his beloved 007. Faulks is not as self-indulgent as Fleming–there are no page-long monoliths of dialogue–and the abject racism has been toned down. Yet Fleming’s brand of racism and sexism are still present, along with the other absurd, engaging elements of a Bond novel. Faulks has subsumed his voice to write, unapologetically, as Ian Fleming.

The resultant novel is as refreshing for fans of the literary Bond as Casino Royale was for fans of the cinematic Bond. In the first two chapters (an “opening sequence” and the introduction of James Bond) Faulks establishes his facility with the world and character of 007. The initial violence in a rain-soaked ghetto is a shattered window; Bond’s boredom while on holiday is a crystal wineglass that magnifies his frustrated state of mind. An encounter with a beautiful Russian evokes the best of Fleming’s electric flirtations. It is also contrived. Aside from other awkward (but brief) references to past Bond adventures, Faulks slides into Fleming’s shoes without much hand waving.

As the story unfolds, we’re privy to Bond’s ruminations on health, duty, and women. Faulks perhaps missteps in terms of pacing and emphasis. For example, an early attempt on Bond’s life has no follow up, which makes the encounter feel tacked on and unresolved. Likewise, the clever establishment of The Summer of Love left me wanting more. Other modest bits, such as a mystery involving two sisters and Bond’s forced marches through Persia, consume several chapters. Yet these annoyances never subvert the overall joy of reading a Bond novel.

Tarnished chivalry, tuned senses, and brute determination eventually carry the day. Faulks paints a villain who is as depraved as he is believable (assuming your disbelief is securely suspended). You want to see Gorner brought down, and the dilly-dallying beforehand builds up tension. As in Fleming’s tales, Bond’s actions are not all that impressive; the journey itself, the sense of spirit and human reserves, power the tale. Throughout, Faulks delivers steady, confident prose and judicious attention to detail.

Gone are the video-game like slaughters of Benson and the “gee whiz” technology of Gardner. Devil May Care is most reminiscent of Colonel Sun for its faithful tone and good intentions. Of course, this means that the bathwater is left in with the baby. Two thirds of the novel would not exist but for a horrendously stupid decision on Bond’s part, a decision that no thinking man in his position would ever make: a classic Fleming MacGuffin. The arc of the story is eminently predictable, as are the outcomes of each encounter. Perhaps Faulks telegraphs some of his decisions, or perhaps he stuck to the formula that made Fleming’s works equally predictable. In either case you won’t be surprised.

Then again, that’s precisely why Devil May Care works so well.