FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
Ian Fleming + James Bond
Ben Macintyre
CONTENTS
001 ‘The Scent and Smoke and Sweat of a Casino . . .’
002 The Life: Smelling Battle from Afar
003 Who Was James Bond?
004 The Plots: From Hot War to Cold War
005 Gadgets, Guns, Gizmos and Gear-Sticks
006 Bond Girls
007 Shaken, Stirred and Custom-Made: Bond’s Life of Luxury
008 The Short Life of Ian Fleming; The Eternal Life of James Bond
009 The Spy Who Never Dies
010 The Thriller Writer with the Golden Touch
Author’s Note
Picture Section
The Bond Books
Acknowledgements
Selected Further Reading
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Also available by Ben Macintyre
001
‘The Scent and Smoke and Sweat of a Casino . . .’
001
‘The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino . . .’
One morning in February 1952, in a holiday hideaway on the island of Jamaica, a middle-aged British journalist sat down at his desk and set about creating a fictional secret agent, a character that would go on to become one of the most successful, enduring and lucrative creations in literature. The circumstances were not immediately auspicious. Ian Fleming had never written a novel before, though he had done much else. He had tried his hand at banking, stockbroking and working as a newspaper correspondent. As a young man of English privilege, he had toyed with the idea of being a soldier, or a diplomat, but neither had worked out. Only during the war, working in the Intelligence Division of the Royal Navy, had he found a task – as an officer in naval intelligence dreaming up schemes to bamboozle the enemy – worthy of his vivid imagination. But by 1952, the excitement of the war was just a memory. He had settled into a job as a writer and manager on the Sunday Times, a role that involved some enjoyable travel, a little work and a lot of golf, women and lunch. Born to wealth and status, Ian Fleming found his existence undemanding but unsatisfying. Even his best friends would have snorted at the notion that he was destined for immortality.
This, then, was the man who, after a morning swim to wash out the hangover of the night before, hunched over the desk in his Jamaican home ‘Goldeneye’ and began to type, using six fingers, on his elderly Royal portable typewriter. The opening line, after several amendments and corrections, would read: ‘The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning . . .’ Fleming wrote fast, the words pouring out at the rate of two thousand a day, crammed into the space between dawn and the first cocktail, a great rush of creativity conceived in haste and a miasma of tobacco smoke.
A month after he had started writing, Fleming tapped out the words ‘. . . “the bitch is dead now”.’ Casino Royale was complete, and James Bond was born.
Like the character he had created, Ian Fleming was a great deal more complex than he seemed on first acquaintance. Beneath the sybaritic exterior, Fleming was a driven man, intensely observant, with an internal sense of romance and drama that belied his public languor and occasional cynicism. He pretended not to take his books too seriously – ‘the pillow fantasies of an adolescent mind’ was how he later described them – but he approached the craft of thriller-writing with the precision of a professional, and he knew, instinctively, exactly what he was doing. He wrote for many reasons: to take his mind off his impending marriage to Ann Rothermere; increasingly, to prove to her somewhat snooty literary friends that he was a genuine novelist; to emulate his brother, the successful travel writer Peter Fleming; and to stop his friend and neighbour in Jamaica, Noël Coward, from badgering him to get on and ‘write his bloody book’. He also wrote to make money, preferably in large quantities. Fleming liked money (his lifestyle demanded it), and never felt he had quite enough. James Bond would soon help to put that right.
However, for all Fleming’s apparent insouciance, this was no mere money-making venture, but an expression and extension of an extraordinary man. Bond is, in part, Fleming. The exploits of 007 grew directly out of Fleming’s knowledge of wartime intelligence and espionage; they shared similar tastes and attitudes towards women; they even looked similar. Fleming would teasingly refer to the Bond books as ‘autobiography’. Like every good journalist, Fleming was a magpie, collecting material avidly and continuously: names, places, plots, gadgets, faces, restaurant menus and phrases; details from reality that would then be translated into fiction. He once remarked: ‘Everything I write has a precedent in truth.’ Fleming’s research extended to his own personality, which would find expression in a handsome, attractive and conflicted secret agent.
But Bond is also, in part, what Fleming was not. He was the fantasy of what Fleming would like to have been – indeed, what every Englishman raised on Bulldog Drummond and wartime derring-do would like to have been. Bond is a grown-up romantic fairy tale, a promise that Britain, having triumphed in the World War, was still a force to be reckoned with in the dull chill of the Cold War. In the grim austerity of postwar Britain, here was a man dining on champagne and caviar, enjoying guiltless sex, glamorous foreign travel, and an apparently unlimited expense account.
This was the Bond recipe: part imagination and part truth; part Ian Fleming and part his alter ego; fiction based on fact, with a dash of journalism. This thriller cocktail was as heady and intoxicating as the weapons-grade martini James Bond orders in Casino Royale: ‘Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice cold, then add a large thick slice of lemon-peel.’ Kina Lillet was a particularly bitter wine-based aperitif laced with quinine from the bark of the South American cinchona tree, or ‘kina kina’; vodka mixed with gin is a particularly lethal combination. Drinking one of these Bond cocktails is a little like reading one’s first Bond novel: it leaves you reeling, light-headed and faintly guilty, but keen for another.
Casino Royale contains many of the ingredients that explain why Bond would go on to conquer the world: beautiful, externally tough but emotionally vulnerable women; a glamorous setting; a repulsive villain; cold-blooded communist killers; sex, violence and luxury. But it is the character of Bond – established in the first novel and hardly altered thereafter – that explains the enduring appeal of the world Fleming forged: tough, resourceful, quintessentially British, but also, as Fleming intended, empty – the blunt instrument of the British secret service, a blank slate for the reader to write on.
Thirteen more Bond books would follow Casino Royale. By the time of his death, just twelve years later, Ian Fleming had sold more than forty million copies, and the first two Bond films had been made, to acclaim, giving birth to a multi-billion-dollar industry that expands with every passing year. Today, more than half the world’s population has seen at least one Bond film. Ann, Fleming’s wife, would nickname him ‘Thunderbeatle’, as rich and celebrated as the Beatles themselves. Bond not only outlived Fleming, but continues to be reborn: new films, new books authorised by the Fleming estate, new spoofs. Every age gets the Bond it needs. He is updated with new attitudes to sex, smoking and alcohol, and remodelled with fresh tailoring, new enemies and ever more imaginative gadgets. The film Bond evolved in different ways from Fleming’s creation, taking on the characteristics of actors as different as Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and now Daniel Craig. In the books, Bond kills sparingly, while on screen the carnage is often staggering. Fleming’s Bond is vulnerable, prey to nerves and even fear, whereas on screen he barely bleeds, let alone psychologically. Yet the essential Bond is the sam
e, the brand eternal: a sardonic, stylish, seductive Englishman, with a licence not just to kill, but to perform every feat that an armchair Bond can imagine.
Back in 1952, having finished what he called his ‘oafish opus’, Fleming stuck the sixty-thousand-word manuscript in his briefcase and for some time showed it to no one. One of the first to read it, a former girlfriend, Clare Blanchard, told him waspishly: ‘If you must publish it, for heaven’s sake do it under a different name’ – with hindsight one of the worst pieces of advice in literary history. Fleming claimed the writing of this ‘thriller thing’ had been easy, the distraction of a few hours, dashed off with ‘half his brain’. He would maintain this airy attitude to the end, insisting that Casino Royale could be boiled down to a few key elements: ‘I extracted them from my wartime memories,’ he remarked, ‘dolled them up, attached a hero, a villain and a heroine, and there was the book.’
This nonchalance was, we can be sure, the purest bluff, something that Fleming, as a lifelong card-player and former expert in naval intelligence, was very good at. He may have pretended to dismiss his creation, and play down its literary merit, but he must have known that he had written a remarkable book, albeit remarkably fast. The idea for Bond had been gestating in his mind, and his personality, for at least a decade. Back in 1944, as the war reached its climax, Fleming had told a friend in deep earnestness: ‘I am going to write the spy story to end all spy stories.’
And that is exactly what he did.
002
The Life: Smelling Battle from Afar
002
The Life: Smelling Battle From Afar
Ian Lancaster Fleming: even his name had an imagined romance sewn into it, for his mother liked to claim descent from John of Gaunt, the fourteenth-century Duke of Lancaster and the rich and powerful son of Edward III. Whether this claim to medieval royal ancestry contained any truth is unclear, and perhaps unimportant, for Fleming family myth was a powerful force, and an important element in the genetic recipe that made up James Bond.
The Flemings were certainly wealthy and well connected. On the eve of Ian’s birth, they represented the epitome of the Edwardian moneyed class, though the money was new – barely two generations old – a fact that may explain Ian’s eternal preoccupation with the stuff. His grandfather, Robert, born in a Dundee slum, had made a vast fortune through American railroads and other shrewd investments, with which he had built a forty-four-room Gothic mansion in Oxfordshire, and instant respectability. The Flemings were tweedy, hearty, thrifty and vigorous, dedicated to outdoor pursuits and blood sports. Besides money and social cachet, Robert Fleming bequeathed to his sons, including the eldest, Valentine (Ian’s father), a taste for hard work, a certain Presbyterian rigidity, and a family motto that emphasised action over reflection: ‘Let the deed shaw [show].’
Ian Fleming’s parents might have stepped straight from a sepia photograph illustrating the twilight of the Edwardian era in all its doomed romance. Val Fleming was a rising star in the Conservative Party, a friend of Winston Churchill and a pillar of the landed squirearchy. A pure product of Eton and Oxford, he was handsome, gentle, intelligent and seemingly marked for success. His wife, Eve Ste Croix Rose, was equally beautiful, but bohemian, socially ambitious, wilful and artistic, with a domineering personality.
Ian, their second son, was born, on 28 May 1908, into a world of great privilege and great expectations. The first eight years of his life were idyllic, his main hurdle being how to make an impression beneath the shadow of his elder brother Peter, who was, in almost every respect, the sort of ideal child every parent longs for, and younger brothers traditionally detest. Peter was precocious, effortlessly brilliant and, if you happened to be a brother a year younger, a focus of rapt hero-worship and a permanent reminder of inadequacy. Two more brothers followed, Richard and Michael. A friend described the self-confident Fleming sons as an intimidating, charmed unit of ‘strong, handsome, black-haired, blue-eyed boys’. There were the traditional nannies, and the traditionally brutal prep school, Durnford, an institution near Swanage which epitomised the strange British faith in bad food, plenty of Latin and beating from an early age. ‘My coff has grown to whoping coff now,’ Ian wrote to his mother stoically, at the age of seven. ‘Please dont tell Mister Pellatt [the headmaster] cause just this morning he said that nun of us had coffs. I am afraid I do not like school very much.’ In fact the regime seems to have made Ian no more miserable or ill than anyone else. The headmaster’s wife read to the pupils from contemporary classics of boys’ adventure: John Buchan’s Richard Hannay stories, Fu Man Chu, The Prisoner of Zenda and later Bulldog Drummond, tales of strange and evil foreigners, stiff upper lips, and knock-out upper-cuts. This was the sort of story Fleming loved and, many years later, would write in an updated form.
But long before that, Fleming would find a real-life action hero tragically close to home. In 1914, Valentine Fleming had headed to the Western Front as an officer with the Oxfordshire Hussars. His moving letters to a friend and fellow officer, Winston Churchill, describing the pitted and charred landscape of the battlefront, suggest that the literary skills of both Peter and Ian were at least partly inherited. In May 1917, after a war of distinguished gallantry, Major Valentine Fleming, DSO, was killed in the trenches by shellfire.
The Fleming boys idolised their father (nicknamed ‘Mokie’, on account of his ‘Smokey’ pipe), and after his death he became an unattainable symbol of chivalry and moral goodness. In their nightly prayers, the boys would entreat the Almighty to ‘Make me more like Mokie.’ The desire to emulate this military father-hero would run through the lives of every Fleming son, but perhaps most notably in Ian, and his fictional counterpart. It does not do to over-psychoanalyse James Bond, but perhaps this tragedy offers some clue to 007’s fatherless reverence for ‘M’, to the way that every villain lectures Bond as if speaking to a wayward little boy, and to the exaggerated respect Fleming showed towards older men for the rest of his life. Churchill himself wrote an obituary of Val Fleming, mourning the death of this bright hope with such a ‘lovable and charming personality’, and a signed, framed copy of the eulogy was kept by Ian Fleming as a treasure throughout his life. ‘He was a man of thoughtful and tolerant opinions, which were not the less strongly or clearly held because they were not loudly or frequently asserted.’
Fleming would always retain what he called a ‘mysterious affection’ for Eton, the elite British public school he attended from 1921. Peter had, of course, preceded him, blazing a trail of athletic and academic success that Ian veered away from with all the energy and wilfulness a second son could muster. Ian was often in trouble, frequently beaten by his sadistic housemaster, and notably deficient in most aspects of his schoolwork. He also discovered girls, and lost his virginity in a box at the Royalty Kinema, Windsor – an experience that he would echo in The Spy Who Loved Me when describing the early love life of his heroine Vivienne Michel. Only on the athletics field did he show any real application, becoming Victor Ludorum, or school sports champion. Fleming was so proud of this achievement that he referred to it, wryly, in the revealing jacket blurb for Casino Royale: ‘Like his brother Peter – a more famous author – he was sent to Eton, where he was Victor Ludorum two years in succession, a distinction only once equalled – presumably by another second son trying to compensate for a brilliant older brother.’
In the premature obituary provided by M in You Only Live Twice, we learn that James Bond was expelled from Eton, after a ‘brief and undistinguished’ school career following ‘some alleged trouble with one of the boys’ maids’, and was then sent to Fettes (the Eton equivalent in Scotland). Fleming escaped a similar fate when he was removed from Eton by his mother at the age of seventeen, a term early, sent to a tutorial crammer to prepare for the army entrance exams, and then duly crammed into the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, the training college for army officers.
By turns truculent and romantic, Fleming was not cut out for the regimented life o
f a Sandhurst cadet. His tutor, however, predicted that he would probably make a good soldier, ‘provided always that the Ladies don’t ruin him’. It was a prophetic remark. During one of his many forays outside the barracks, Fleming conceived a passion for Peggy Barnard, the attractive daughter of a colonel. On the evening of Sandhurst Sports Day, this blameless girl had agreed to attend an Oxford ball with another man, a date that so irritated Ian that he vowed, if she went ahead with it, to go to London and ‘find myself a tart’. Peggy went to the ball, and Ian went to the Forty-Three Club in Soho, carried out his threat, and came down with a nasty dose of gonorrhoea. Fleming’s enraged mother booked him into a nursing home, told the Sandhurst authorities that he was ill, and then pulled him out of the college altogether. In a last-ditch effort to instil some sort of balance in her increasingly wayward son (and if possible prepare him for the Foreign Office exams, her newest ambition for him), ‘Mrs Val’, as she was known, dispatched Ian to a finishing school, the Tennerhof, at Kitzbühel in the Austrian Alps.
The Tennerhof was a peculiar establishment, run by an eccentric English couple, Ernan and Phyllis Forbes Dennis, a former diplomat-spy and his novelist wife. Ian learned to ski, and spent much of his time conducting brief liaisons with the local girls. ‘Technique in bed is important,’ he wrote in a notebook, with somewhat unattractive languor. ‘It is the scornful coupling that makes the affairs of Austrians and Anglo-Saxons so fragmentary and in the end so distasteful.’ Far more important than brushing up his technique in bed and on the slopes, under the indulgent care of the Forbes Dennises, Fleming would begin to read, voraciously, and start to write, tentatively. Every evening, wild-haired Phyllis Forbes Dennis would spin fantastic stories at the dinner table (having spent the early part of each day in bed writing novels under a pseudonym), and she encouraged her pupils to do likewise. Many years later, Fleming would credit Phyllis with helping to launch his career as a writer, though it would take many more years for that talent to emerge. He wrote several poems and short stories, which were vivid and expressive if rather over-cooked.
For Your Eyes Only Page 1
