Solo: A James Bond Novel review – Has William Boyd outdone Ian Fleming?
Boyd's spy romp has got the tone just right and offers a plausible peek behind the curtains of British intelligence
Perhaps the most serious author to take up the Bond baton … William Boyd. Photograph: Leon Neal/Getty Images
It's a curious phenomenon, the rise of the semi-canonical sequel. It's a return to the nursery, a kind of fan-fiction, and a reluctance to accept that the final page of the book is the end of the story. Particularly prone to this is James Bond's audience, appropriately enough, given that the Bond books are basically adolescent in appeal (which is not to say this is a bad thing). Those written by Ian Fleming are now hugely outnumbered by those that aren't. The exercise was given an immediate pseudo-legitimacy by Kingsley Amis, who published the first post-Fleming Bond story, Colonel Sun, in 1968; more recently, Sebastian Faulks gave the franchise further respectability with Devil May Care.
William Boyd is, with Amis, and pace Faulks, perhaps the most serious, or most respected author to take up the Bond baton. One does wonder why? He can hardly need the money, or the potential risk to his reputation. Amis put his finger on it, perhaps, when he said we want to be Bond: and the "we" here also means "writers". We have long gone past the point when Bond stories were taken seriously, if they ever were; as the films have, for most of the last 40 years, been travesties of the original concept, Bond is a barrel whose bottom has been scraped right through, and now represents only a kind of Ukip masturbation fantasy in this country (remember that union jack parachute in The Spy Who Loved Me?) and formulaic high jinks elsewhere
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William Boyd is, with Amis, and pace Faulks, perhaps the most serious, or most respected author to take up the Bond baton. One does wonder why? He can hardly need the money, or the potential risk to his reputation. Amis put his finger on it, perhaps, when he said we want to be Bond: and the "we" here also means "writers". We have long gone past the point when Bond stories were taken seriously, if they ever were; as the films have, for most of the last 40 years, been travesties of the original concept, Bond is a barrel whose bottom has been scraped right through, and now represents only a kind of Ukip masturbation fantasy in this country (remember that union jack parachute in The Spy Who Loved Me?) and formulaic high jinks elsewhereMore
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