Stirred, not shaken

Calling anything a 'James Bond novel' is guaranteed to generate reader interest. I witnessed this firsthand when colleagues stopped by my desk, where a copy of Devil May Care, the new Bond book, lay, with queries like "How is it?" Having gone through all the 295 pages, with writing that is sometimes insightful but frequently boring, I can now say this: Sebastian Faulks' attempt is simply not Bond enough.

Sebastian, a former journalist (he was literary editor with The Independent) with impressive credentials, writes as Ian Fleming, to mark the author's birth centenary. What he brings to the table is more in-depth characterisation; background, and motives more literary and stolid, but which, ironically, also mar this attempt. Sebastian's writing is not at all what you would expect from a 007 thriller "" it is low on thrills, glitz, gizmos, and even martinis! Bond switches to whisky and wine here (when he's not drinking tomato juice) which, of course, is just not the same thing. And, if you've always loved his fancy cars and watches, there are none of those either. Faulk's Bond prefers a driver (!) "It was unlikely that Tehran would come up with a car that he would want to drive and in any case a local man would be more at home with the rules of the road "" if there were any "" on the hairpin bends of the Elbruz mountains." Since when has 007 been worried about road rules?

Even the packaging and the length of the book mark it out as an exercise different from what Fleming would have attempted. The average Bond book (when you did read one instead of seeing a film, a much more pleasurable exercise at any rate), like the average Perry Mason or Chase, is one that you read in one continuous sitting, possibly on an airplane or train, and then chuck. Devil May Care looks, and is, a more heavyweight exercise.

But perhaps it is not fair to compare books like this. A more pertinent question would be: Does this one hold up as an enjoyable independent read "" without the baggage of associations? Judging it purely as a work that aspires to provide entertainment "" for clearly this is no literature "" Devil May Care comes off as a pale read. The plot is wafer thin (in the manner of Fleming): James Bond is back at the height of the Cold War, travelling through Paris, Iran, and Afghanistan, trying to thwart the plans of evil genius Gorner, who hates England and all that the English stand for (including cricket), and wants to bring it to its knees using both drugs and nuclear warheads. So far so good. The problem is that the Bond you meet "" when you do meet him, for our hero here is quite overshadowed by small cameos by the supporting cast, all of whom are provided with credible personal histories, distinctive manners, and more personality than 007 himself "" is not engaging enough. He has zero flamboyance and very little ability and thus makes for the most unsatisfactory spy ever.

The pace is slow and action is bogged down by too many details. For instance, we are forced to sit through an entire tennis match, almost at the very beginning of the book, with each emotion and motivation of Bond and his opponent (Gorner) etched out in great detail quite needlessly. Then, there are some stock situations "" a case of twins with different-coloured eyes; one of them with a distinguishing strawberry-coloured birthmark. These seem almost childish and ludicrous in this day and age of Mission Impossible, even if they supposedly substituted for subterfuge a couple of decades ago! As for the 'Bond girl', yes, she is mysterious, yes, she is beautiful and stylish as we expect her to be (she even orders a martini while Bond nurses tomato juice in a delicious reversal of roles). But there is also a certain sentimentality in her character (as in Bond's) that is most unbecoming of a couple of double Os. But oops, we won't give that away!

DEVIL MAY CARE
A JAMES BOND NOVEL

Sebastian Faulks (writing as Ian Fleming)
Penguin
Price: Rs 395; Pages: 295