The Spy Who Saved Us
The figure of James Bond consoled a country in terminal decline, argues Simon Winder in The Man Who Saved Britain, an entertainingly personal romp through Ian Fleming's potboilers, says Sinclair McKay
Sinclair McKay
Sunday June 18, 2006
Observer
The Man Who Saved Britain by Simon Winder
Picador £14.99, pp300
Was James Bond ever really stylish? Or has 007 only ever been cool to those who are themselves irredeemably naff? When Penguin reissued Ian Fleming's finest as silver-jacketed modern classics a couple of years ago - among them Goldfinger, Thunderball and From Russia With Love - it gave these Fifties potboilers a sheen of literary sophistication, elevating them to the same plane as Truman Capote and Jean Rhys. But how many of us were really taken in?
And are any of us going to be taken in by Bond's forthcoming screen incarnation, Daniel Craig? In the tabloids we are confronted almost daily with publicity shots of this otherwise fine actor striking poses with guns with his shirt hanging out for Casino Royale; all we can do is flinch and reflect on just how mad the very notion of Bond seems now.
Such considerations have been nagging away at Simon Winder, too. And with supreme artfulness, he has taken what is little more than a debating subject for an evening in a gastro pub and masterfully turned it into 300 entertaining pages. What at first seems a rather threadbare premise for an entire book - that the ultimate fantasy British secret agent only succeeded because he consoled the British at a time when the nation was in inexorable decline - slowly unfolds into something more personal and, by the end, hugely amusing.
Anyone who has read Dominic Sandbrook's brilliant history of the Fifties and Sixties, Never Had It So Good, will already be familiar with the coronation chicken-filled shabby landscape that Winder paints altogether more luridly. His is an unforgiving portrait of a country run by exhausted, corrupt Tories and lorded over by an aristocracy apparently blithely unaware that the foundations of their privilege had been swept away by the war. But Winder's tone becomes affectionate when he turns to Fleming himself, that embodiment of the cigarette holder-sporting elite.
He looks at Goldeneye, the author's hideaway in Jamaica (Noel Coward was a neighbour), notes his heroic drinking, his tip-tapping at his gold-plated typewriter, and concludes that for all the comical bilge that he produced (and that includes the sex scenes, names such as Pussy and Kissy and the consumerism dressed up as jetset sophistication) there were moments of poetry in his fiction. Not just the guilty pleasure of hearing villains deliver insanely baroque speeches, but the rich underwater scenes, the hypnotic level of detail in the exotic locations and, in From Russia With Love, the magnificently oppressive sense of an evil bureaucracy closing in on Bond.
But this book is not literary criticism; it is much more personal. Winder puts Fleming's work into the context of his own childhood, evoking the era of early-Seventies boyhood entertainment - a vista of incredibly bloodthirsty war comics, self-assembly Spitfire model kits, Action Man commando figures and, indeed, a nation unable to forget its war triumph 30 years previously. In one yelpingly funny passage, he recounts how, as a lad, he and his friend re-enacted a key sequence of The Man With the Golden Gun in his parents' living room using as props a black swivel chair and light switches flicked on and off rapidly. This was after an even more inventive use of the room's green carpet for a restaging of The Dam Busters. Slightly more disturbing is the boarding-school memory of the younger boys being made to act out the title sequence of (again) The Man With The Golden Gun in the dorm by dancing nude on beds with torches flashing around, a portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh looking on. Either way, the argument is that to a generation of boys brought up on 'achtung Tommy' war fiction, Bond represented a British future that could never be.
Neither pop-culture analysis nor biography nor social history, this book is a bizarre mix and yet a weirdly compelling one; especially towards the end when, finally moving on to the subject of the films, Winder throws out all decorum to do a spectacular and enjoyable critical demolition job.
There is just one error of judgment and it's a mistake most Bond aficionados make: Winder has little time for Roger Moore, who was in fact the best screen Bond of all. Moore was the only actor to see how fundamentally distasteful this character was and instead made him an eyebrow-waggling safari-suited wag. 'But James, I need you!' exclaims a blonde in a ski chalet in the pre-credits of The Spy Who Loved Me (1977). 'So does England' replies jaunty Roger, clad in a banana-yellow ski-suit. And all we can do is shout hooray for an age when that was considered blockbusting, top-grossing entertainment. Daniel Craig just won't be the same.
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