Kingsley Amis' James Bond novel, picked up largely because it was a first edition, before he was even revealed as the author, at a price where that seemed like a bargain*. Also because during my Fleming phase many years back, the bit that impressed me the most was the finale of The Man With The Golden Gun, which I was subsequently told Amis had ghostwritten. Whether or not that's true, I have never checked, but certainly he refers back to it early on in the not remotely glamorous opening chapter where Bond plays a round of golf with Bill Tanner and worries about getting soft. Certainly the character's specificity, in this more mundane setting, comes within an ace of going full Partridge – the game is "to be followed in due time by a leisurely drive back to London (avoiding the M4), a light dinner alone in the flat". Entertaining as it might be to have a whole Bond novel in which the biggest confrontation consists of him becoming overbearing about driving routes at an awkward garden party, desperately trying to get a new series, I mean assignment, he soon finds himself guiltily glad to be back in action after M is kidnapped and Bond himself only barely escapes. Still, while the action and derring-do picks up, it remains for some time very much as you might expect a Kingsley Amis Bond novel to be – which is to say, disapproving. Not of Bond, of course, but of pretty much everything else. "In thirty years, he reflected, perhaps sooner, there would be one vast undifferentiated culture, one complex of super-highways, hot-dog stands and neon, interrupted only by the Atlantic, stretching from Los Angeles to Jerusalem; possibly, by then, as far as Calcutta". Which would be anathema to Bond, because if there's one thing he likes it's separating, classifying, analysing. His appraiser's eye categorises people, especially women and foreigners, just as surely as brands or buildings, and seldom very kindly; even when he does approve of something, it'll often be a backhanded compliment. A Greek ally, for instance, doesn't have the particular difficulties in pronouncing English, or later, the precise form of fidgeting, which Bond expects in Greek men. Again, even when they come as part of the prelude to a daring raid, Bond unable to contact base and allied with a sexy enemy, there remains something bathetically Partridge about these really odd but incredibly specific stereotypes. And as for the immortal phrase whereby he "made long love to her"...well. Indeed, the awfulness of all the sex scenes sent me off on another alternate version of the novel; the island of Vrakonisi is, alas, not in the right spot to serve as a stand-in for Hydra, but I still kept being tickled by the notion of Bond crossing paths with sixties Leonard Cohen and growing ever more sulky that this leftie Jew is getting laid more than he is.
Now, one should of course not conflate an author with their characters, and this could all be considered part of Bond's internal monologue, a ruthless anatomisation of a psychotically limited mindset. If only it weren't that when the point of view flips (which it does too easily sometimes), other characters go along with much the same world view. That sexy enemy agent, for instance (and no, her name isn't any innuendo that I could see, more's the pity, just the slightly heavy-handed Ariadne Alexandrou), who finds herself lusting for Bond's beauty even as she plans to betray him. And as for Colonel Sun himself... even when Bond isn't on the scene, he's "an oriental" or "a Chinese" except when one supporting character calls him something worse. His attitude to Britain in general and Bond in particular is a toxic cocktail of envious malice and unbounded sadism tinged with a sort of merciless admiration. His plan is ostensibly to enhance China's influence in the West and particularly Africa, but mainly to torture James Bond, as witness the fact that the former goal is now being achieved far more effectively and less showily by the Belt & Road Initiative. He is, even by Bond villain standards, especially dastardly and not remotely plausible.
All of which may make this sound like a horrible parody of the various reasons Bond books are still considered not quite nice. And yes, to some extent it is. But set against that, for all his many flaws as a person and intermittently as a writer, Amis was not without ability. In particular, there's one description of sunset over a harbour which is just gorgeous. The comedy with which he could be so expert is mostly absent here, or present only in its most sneering and least palatable form, but the tension and the use of landscape which made me so keen on that Golden Gun finale, the protagonist who's a trained killer but not the superman of the films, those are here. Bond is not entirely flat as a character; he has misgivings, as anyone in his position would, and then misgivings about the misgivings. That passage about hot dog stands which I quoted above is followed by one in which he nonetheless declares, if only internally, for the West as against communism, which he characterises as "a doubtfully, conditionally right and unconditionally, unchangeably wrong" – as good a summation as I've seen, even in times like this when what became of the West is showing itself in a particularly poor light. But despite all of that, he can still understand why Ariadne should have turned to communism, and not just because he's making excuses for someone he's fucking. When things are happening, it works.
As with so much, the reading experience is also inevitably tinted by happening during lockdown. If you buy the theory that much of Bond's initial success was as a way to sell out-of-reach luxury living to the masses...well, streaming aside, now we have even less to divert us than those frustrated fifties saps. Even when the meals are underwhelming or the drinks not to Bond's taste, this is a portrait of a world denied to us, all these fancy restaurants, flirtations and foreign journeys firmly out of reach for the duration and likely to be maimed simulacra even once they do return. Part of what put me off flying was that my first experience of the whole tiny bottles, shoes-off security theatre era came shortly after I'd watched a documentary which had pointed out how, in the early Bond films, even catching a regular flight was considered glamorous enough to merit a snatch of the Bond theme (it's noticeable here that the villain smuggle M out of the country on a normal 'plane, not a private jet or anything). And I stood there in my socks clutching my silly little sandwich bag and thought, you know what, fuck this. And soon everything will be like that, all tatty-masked mumbling and perspex screens. Given how shabby and dreary the recent films have been, I can't resist the urge to reach for a tenuous pun and call it the day the world turned Craig-low.
*Without a dustjacket, granted, but while that may mean it isn't quite so abstractly lucrative, it also means I don't have to own that hideous and not very Bond Dali pastiche dustjacket.