His mother, a widow, pursued her eccentricities and a desire to have a daughter, by conceiving a child with Augustus John, the painter. Apart from a daughter, John bequeathed her many portraits. She also interfered in each of Ian’s many early love affairs—and possibly in those of her other sons—with a charming and illogical finality. All this leads us to two conclusions: the book is an automatic choice for a grand period costume film with charming rakes and amorous ladies displaying daring cleavage; and the scene is set to imply the similarities between Ian Fleming and James Bond the spy, the seducer and ruthless servant of the Queen. But Lycett is more successful in establishing the beginnings of Fleming as a writer. Clearly, James Bond is one of the longest-surviving movie characters based on fiction writing, whose longevity consumed four actors and produced millions in profit.
Fleming’s amorous pursuits while trying to find himself between resigning from Sandhurst and joining the Naval Intelligence Division (NID) were set in stunning locations, each of which became the setting for later Bond novels. Dr No’s predilection for Switzerland as his evil hideout comes from Ian’s many liaisons in Swiss ski resorts. His first boss at NID, Vice Admiral Godfrey, is still remembered by old-timers of the Indian navy as the Flag Officer, Bombay, at the time of partition. Ayub Khan incidentally was the only one in Fleming’s batch who went on to bigger if not greater things.
Fleming’s time at the NID involved nothing like the hair-raising exploits of Bond. Acting mostly as an aide to Godfrey, Fleming was full of ideas like denying Spain and the Danube to the Nazis and setting up reconnaissance units to help the British and Americans recapture France. The Introduction, however, alludes to some of the most stunning exploits of MI6 during the war, the details of which have never emerged, suggesting that Fleming was personally involved in all of them. The most chilling was the double game played by Admiral Canaris, head of the German military intelligence, who maintained close contacts with MI6 through the war, while supporting practically every attempt to assassinate Hitler. By merely suggesting that Fleming was the liaison man but providing no details, the author wants us to believe that Ian was the kind of spymaster who ran agents like Bond.
Bond’s successes and attitude to women originate in Fleming’s own psyche. Many of his letters show a cynical and hard view of women as undependable, on whom friendship bestowed is never reciprocated as is a man’s comradeship. Nevertheless, his increasing moodiness and disquiet at his failing heterosexual relationships show him to be vulnerable and dependent on women. He is actually quoted as having said in real life, as Bond did in a novel, that marriage does not add to two people but subtracts one from the other. Contrary to what he said, he became increasingly dependent on Blanche, his third long-time partner and the stability of the house she maintained in Jamaica.
Fleming’s first novel barely sold 5,000 copies and the film rights to Casino Royale went for just 6,000 pounds. Critics were cool to his writing. But backed by magnates like Lord Beaverbrook, read avidly by the Kennedys and supported by friends like Noel Coward, a Bond novel was selling five million copies by the early ’60s. If editors and publishers are losing their touch, this book is an example. It’s too long and Fleming the author comes out but weakly. Incredibly racy stuff like Ian’s 60-year-old mother being sued by Lady Winchester for enticing the affections of her husband, who was actually chasing a Parsi lady, are mixed with incredibly boring details of Fleming’s daily life. It’s a good buy but skip a hundred pages.
