English author Ian Fleming had a very systematic and orderly routine that he employed in the creation of his 14 James Bond books (12 novels, plus two collections of short stories). Each winter, he would vacation at his Goldeneye retreat at Oracabessa, on the north shore of Jamaica, and write a bit each day; reportedly, around 2,000 words. As revealed in Raymond Benson's "James Bond Bedside Companion," Fleming would start the day with a swim and breakfast, followed by a few hours of work and then lunch, after which he took a nap and then wrote for another hour or so. He would write very quickly, which partially accounts for the fast-moving nature of his thrillers, and only after a first draft was finished would he go back, revise, and insert the copious details that are a hallmark of the series; the plethora of convincing minutiae that gave his tales such an air of verisimilitude; the so-called "Fleming effect." But what would have happened if one of his tales was released without that later revision, and the addition of all those trademark details? Well, such was exactly the case with the final 007 novel, "The Man With the Golden Gun." Written by Fleming in the winter of 1964, the initial manuscript was still in its incomplete state when the author died on August 12th of that year, at the age of 56. The publisher Jonathan Cape released the hardcover edition of Fleming's unfinished work in April '65, to middling reviews but huge sales. Benson, who I greatly respect and admire, has deemed the book "the weakest novel in [the] series," and he may well be right. Still, lesser Fleming, as it turns out, is still mighty good enough.
The book picks up around a year after the events of the previous Bond novel, 1964's "You Only Live Twice," at the end of which Bond had become an amnesiac, living in a Japanese fishing village, and venturing to Vladivostok to search for his identity. In "Golden Gun"'s memorable opening (so memorable, indeed, that this reader clearly recalled it from an initial reading, over 40 years earlier), a brainwashed Bond returns to London and attempts to assassinate his boss, M, with a cyanide pistol! He fortunately fails in this attempt, is deprogrammed by the British Secret Service, and then sent on a seemingly impossible mission as a means of determining whether he's still "got it." His task: to track down and exterminate the Spanish criminal/hitman Francisco Scaramanga, currently working for the Castro government in Cuba and responsible for the deaths of many British agents. Bond tracks his quarry to a brothel in Jamaica (Fleming knew the island well, of course, and had previously used it as a setting in "Live and Let Die" and "Dr. No," as well as in the short stories "For Your Eyes Only" and "Octopussy") and manages to get hired by the gunman as a personal assistant of sorts. It seems that the hitman has convened a small gathering of hoods (including representatives of the Mafia and K.G.B.) at a hotel that they are financing and erecting near Negril, and that Bond will be responsible for the entertainments at that bash....
It is difficult to deny Benson's assertion that the plot in this final book is thin, that the climactic battle between 007 and his adversary is not as exciting as it could have been, that Scaramanga makes some illogical decisions, and that the sections dealing with Bond's attack on M and subsequent rehabilitation are too brief. Still, I would disagree with Benson when he says that "Bond is robotlike in this novel," and that Scaramanga "is hardly adequate for a Bond villain." Indeed, there are numerous instances in which we are given a glimpse at 007's thought processes, and in which he displays a distinct, empathetic and feeling persona. Witness how decently he treats Tiffy in that Savannah La Mar brothel, and the fact that he cannot bring himself to shoot Scaramanga (twice) in cold blood. And as for Scaramanga, he may make some slips during the course of the book (such as hiring not only Bond, but also Bond's C.I.A. buddy, Felix Leiter, to work at his weekend shindig), but his conversations with the K.G.B. agent, Hendriks, regarding such matters as sugar plantation sabotage, drug smuggling, prostitution and high finance, reveal him to be a man of no small intellect. While reading the book, I couldn't help thinking that a better person to play Scaramanga on screen would have been the great character actor Dan Duryea, who sadly passed away six years before the film's 1974 release. (The film, the weakest of the 23 to date, for this viewer, completely jettisoned the novel's plot in favor of a Far East setting and "solex agitator," sci-fi story line.) Christopher Lee may have been a cousin of Fleming's, and certainly brings a lot of class to any production he appears in, but Duryea surely would have captured Scaramanga better as Fleming depicts him: nasty, snide and foul mouthed ("Okay, bimbo...Don't bust your stays getting through the window," he says to Bond's secretary, Mary Goodnight, in one suspenseful sequence).
"The Man With the Golden Gun" is interesting in that it finally reveals to the reader the real name of M, updates us on the fate of "Dr. No"'s Honey Ryder, tells us that the name of Bond's cover employer has been changed from Universal Exports to Transworld Consortium, and concludes with Bond being offered a knighthood, which he declines. It also features the least sex of any of the Bond novels--none, as a matter of fact, although Goodnight's offer to care for the wounded 007 at the book's tail end can easily be seen as a romantic promise. The action in the book is limited, as well: the assassination attempt, a gun battle aboard a moving train, and Bond and Scaramanga facing off in a deserted swamp. Still, the book is consistently suspenseful (at least, I found it to be so) and fast moving. And if all that great wealth of detail usually to be found in a Bond novel is largely absent here, well, there is still plenty enough ("On Her Majesty's Secret Service," for example, had sent me scurrying to the atlas and Interwebs to look up 285 references; the book in question, a "mere" 112); Mary doesn't just wear a blouse, but a "white tussore shirt." Fleming always was an elegant writer, and he surely is here, too, and yet, he unfortunately manages to use the word "mock" twice in two consecutive paragraphs ("mock-English" and "mock boisterous"), references Wilton carpets twice in two different abodes, and even gets one of his Caribbean facts wrong: Pitch Lake is in western Trinidad, not eastern. Still, he is capable of some wonderful foreshadowing (such as when Tiffy uses the expression "kill two birds with the same stone," just minutes before Scaramanga shoots two Jamaican grackles in her presence) and giving us some cool tough talk (practically everything that Scaramanga utters to Bond, not to mention my favorite line in the book, as spoken by one particularly nasty Rasta to 007: "Rass, man. Ah doan talk wid buckra." I urge you to read the book for the translation!) "The Man With the Golden Gun" may have ended this classic series on a weak note, but the book itself winds up with some wonderful summations of the Bond character, as Leiter cogently tells the agent "Pest control...It's what you were put into the world for" and Bond later dwells on how domesticity, for him, "would always pall." Ringing down the curtain on fiction's most famous secret agent, Fleming's final effort may not be his best, but it sure was good enough for this reader. One can only wonder how much better this work might have been, had time allowed its author to embellish it with his patented "Fleming effect"....