I’ve seen a ton of James Bond movies. They are always good fun. Even for someone like me who doesn’t care for spy stories. I’ve never read any of the James Bond books, though. And going by this graphic novel which goes to great length to be a faithful adaptation, I’m not missing out.
Who knew that a James Bond story could be so dreadfully tedious, tepid, torpid? Are they all like that?
How exciting is it to spend so much of the book in a casino watched men gamble at cards? I suppose some people are into that sort of thing, but … really?
I mean, the entire plot is just silly. Let’s embarrass a deadly spy operative at cards … yeah, that’ll teach him a lesson. A lesson apparently only Bond, James Bond, could teach.
And when that backfires, let’s throw in a bunch more spies. Also, let’s get Bond all roughed up but to balance things out, let’s throw him in a sexy lady spy love interest.
Sure, it sounds like so many Bond movies, but those have the momentum and visuals to compensate for the plot’s shortcomings. This book doesn’t. The original text presumably offers even less.
There are some fun turns of phrase, sure, but Fleming wasn’t a writer; he was a spy turned writer. A man very much of his day and age.
And as such the obnoxious masculinity and the preposterous gender politics of the book are indeed toxic. And I am not, really not, one of those hyperwoke people who decry the outrages of bygone era’s social norms. I’m all about historical context. But even with that in mind, Fleming’s writing of men and women’s psychology and relationships is horrid. Or laughable, depending on your perspective. These things have been getting touched up and makeuped over in the movies (more and more as time goes by) and apparently for a good reason.
So yeah, a load of nonsense. A ploddingly slow read with not-all-that-impressive art. A far cry from the movies.
In fact, funnily enough, it’s the thing to ruin James Bond for you, if you’re mainly a movie fan. Avoid.