Second in a series of reviews. Previously: Silverfin. Next: Live and Let Die
Sometimes marketing ploys really do work. My enjoyment of Silverfin encouraged me to try out one of the original Bond novels — in fact, the original Bond novel: Casino Royale. (Although I bought Silverfin second-hand and have borrowed the first three Bond books from the library, so sales may not be sticking as closely to plan as the marketing).
Casino Royale introduces Bond, who’s recognizable, but not yet familiar, as the magnificent bastard that he later becomes. In fact, one of the surprises of this book was just how inadequate Bond is during this early stage of his career: my impression is that he spends much of this particular adventure falling into traps and being rescued by others. There’s only one scene in which Bond’s own resourcefulness is key.
It’s hard for this thriller ingénue to judge how much of this is because Casino Royale was written before the “obvious” traps became genre conventions. In fact, the whole book presents something of a historical puzzle for the under-educated reader: half the fun was trying to work out which parts were intended to be thrillingly novel back in its day.
My suspicion, without much knowledge to back it up, is that Bond’s racial stereotyping of his fellow baccarat-players would not have drawn much comment back in 1953. I have an equally unsupported suspicion that the torture scene was explicit for its day – but to this modern reader, reared with ultraviolence, it seemed tame and sketchy. (I guess we really have become desensitised over the intervening years). And then there is the extraordinary line in which Bond considers approvingly that Vesper Lynd’s private nature will afford their love-making “the sweet tang of rape” – which I assume must have been included to be intentionally provocative.
Elsewhere, the details painstakingly furnished by Fleming are more clearly antiquated: at one point Bond speculates that Le Chiffre, the villain of the piece, may be raising funds by smuggling antibiotics; at another, the author notes approvingly that Bond’s car starts first time. (By a quirk of currency revaluation, the amounts at stake in the titular casino once again sound impressive, inflation notwithstanding). These points don’t, however, render the book fusty; rather, they give it a kind of vintage charm.
Overall, I quite enjoyed Casino Royale, but it’s hard to say how much of this is down to its attractions as a period piece and in spotting the introduction of various parts of the Bond blueprint – the babe, the car, the charismatic baddie, the supervillains, and so on. If I knew nothing of the Bondage to come, I doubt I’d read the sequel to Casino Royale; as it is (and call me shallow if you will), I’m intrigued to find out where Fleming takes Bond next.