Writing a James Bond novel, like performing gymnastics, comes with compulsories. A gymnast has to hit certain marks: the long-hang kip, the flyaway dismount, the backward roll to push-up position. So, too, with Bond. If you’ve been chosen by the estate to extend the work of Ian Fleming—the original 12 novels have grown to 41—then you must refer to the gunmetal cigarette case and the Sea Island cotton shirts; you must bring in M and Miss Moneypenny and the Balkan blend from Morland; you must mention the martinis prepared in a manner we all know. The winks can become a facial tic.
There are important decisions to make. Do you update Bond to the present, or do you set the story in the 1950s and 1960s, the period of Fleming’s own books? There’s also the matter of tone. A Sherlock Holmes pastiche can mimic Conan Doyle’s voice precisely. A Bond pastiche wants some distance from Fleming. Everyone knows the Bond movies, with their sardonic flair. Few know the dark literary canon. Fleming’s books are spare, fast-paced, and better written than you might expect. But they are shot through with sadism, cruelty, and revulsion at non-Anglo-Saxons. They make you wonder about the author. (The standard photo of Fleming—insouciant, with cigarette holder—is not reassuring.) Within bounds, a modern writer needs some freedom.
